


Fate Written In Blood

by White_Whispers



Series: Crimson Destiny [1]
Category: None - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-08-24 10:05:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 84,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8368246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/White_Whispers/pseuds/White_Whispers
Summary: Fifty-two years after the betrayal and murder of High King Escavlor IV by his half-brother, the once-proud kingdom of Bladerelna has fallen under the shadows of an ancient menace. Her tyrannical ruler, High King Vorzil, has sent the Blaideish armies to harass and wreak havoc among the other kingdoms of the Alliance of Crowns; the old loyalties and allegiances are falling apart, and the unity of SwordSoul threatens to break apart in the chaos that resulted from Escavlor's death. In the middle of encroaching war between the kingdoms, the true heirs to the Blaideish throne are discovered by those who seek to either restore the realm to peace, or plunge it further into shadow. Caught up in their own struggles to come to terms with who they are, the turmoil and deceit around them, and the plight of the kingdoms of the Alliance of Crowns, the scattered heirs find themselves plunged into a path they are ill-prepared to face.





	1. Chapter 1

CRIMSON DESTINY  
Fate Written In Blood

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER I

The reclusive and small village of Hinn lay quiet in the hush of dawn as the first shafts of sunlight crept up from behind the distant peaks in the east. No sound could be heard at first except for the low murmur of the river as its brown waters eddied past the settlement on the south. But as the light gathered, and the chill of the night was swept away by the clear morning breeze, a flock of roused birds began their dawn ritual; teetering among the boughs of the village orchard and uttering their low and high notes as they preened themselves in the blush of the newly risen sun. A rooster crowed from an awning close by the elder’s dwelling, and at that heralding call, the inhabitants were astir.  
Men stepped from the low doors of their humble, though sagging, huts and glanced contemplatively at the morning sky. While still chewing the last crumbs of their meagre fare, they would stride out into the streets about their daily labours, be it hewing wood in the nearby forrests or tending to the small fields of wheat and corn that danced at the west side of the settlement. Their wives in the meantime would gather at the village cistern to share news of their households as they scrubbed out their wash or came for water. A few children darted furtively along the streets, pale, thin and with shadows of fear lurking in the remotest recesses of their eyes.  
From the direction of the trees and keeping close to the riverbank, a lone figure emerged from the shadowy eaves and halted. From the depths of a close-fitting hood, cold eyes surveyed the village; sweeping past the streets and turning to run a swift, sharp glance down the road that disappeared behind a low crest of hills to the north. Satisfied, maybe, that no danger or menace waited beyond the shelter of the boughs, the figure stirred. With long, purposeful strides it made its swift way to a dwelling near the very edge of the village. A ancient oak spread its limbs over the lonely-looking hut, which was bordered on both sides with gardens of herbs both common and rare. Pausing with one hand on the latch, the figure cast a sharp almost furtive glance towards the main cluster of buildings before slipping inside.  
In the gloom of the low hall, Dream pulled back her hood and straightened up as much as the close quarters permitted her tall frame. She passed into the main room, and her eyes slid through the smoky interior searchingly.  
A small fire crackled in the hearth, and the small, wizened form of an old woman stooped low over a great iron cauldron, stirring and stirring with a long, bent ladle. She looked up as the girl stepped in, and her faded grey eyes blinked with welcome and concern at her appearance. Turning back to the pot before her and peering into the thick, steamy contents, her cracked voice reached across the room with a hint of reproof.  
“You’ve been gone all night again, child.”  
Dream nodded, settling her lean frame against the wall and crossing her arms over her chest. Her dark eyes stared into nothingness.  
“This is the fourth time you’ve left without saying a word.”  
Silence followed, heavy and strained.  
The old woman stopped her stirring and looked at the girl closely through the smoke. With a sigh she set aside her ladle and crossed to the small window that overlooked her gardens of herbs. Memories of long ago clouded her mind; memories of when this child had been brought to her door as a helpless infant, chilled to the bone and near death from hunger and exposure to the harsh elements. Despite the terrible hardships of the village, she had taken that child and raised her as if she had been her own flesh and blood. Sheltering her from the terrors that plagued the other villagers and hiding her away from the hardships had slowly; however, created a rift between the two. Now that Dream had grown, now that she saw with her own eyes what she had been kept from, there was a bitterness and resentment in her that the old woman could not understand for all her years of knowledge.  
Eshura turned from the window. She shuffled her aged frame towards the worn table and settled on the rough-hewn bench. “Where have you been going these nights, Dream?” she inquired slowly. “You know it’s not safe for a young girl to be out alone.”  
Dream lowered her eyes, her lips pinched in a thin, tense line. “Just out into the forrest.” She replied evasively, avoiding her near-mother’s keen eyes and kind, though strained, expression.  
The woman frowned. “Out in the forrest,” she repeated thoughtfully. “What are you doing there? And why must it be at night?”  
The girl shrugged, still not looking up. “Thinking, I guess.”  
Eshura clasped her old and seamed hands together on the surface of the table, her eyes troubled and bewildered. Dream no longer had the trust to confide in her as she once did. Where had she failed? She thought back to the years when the girl had been young and had come to her with every thought and every ache that touched her tender heart.  
“Dream,” she began; pausing after the first word to draw in her breath before starting again, “Dream, remember that this village is one of the few safe havens in Aradomoria. Beyond these valleys and this river lies a kingdom in turmoil from which I have tried my best to keep you safe from. Here, you have been sheltered –”  
“Sheltered?!” Dream spat out the word in such vehemence that Eshura glanced up in astonishment at the outburst. The girl’s featured twisted with the pain of old memories, and icy flames rose in her dark, stormy eyes as she finally looked up. “Forgive me near-mother, but I find no solace in being sheltered while others suffer around me.”  
A sickening feeling awoke in Eshura’s heart, and she felt weak. “Who is suffering, my child?” she asked, trying to hide her sudden agitation.  
“Aradomoria is suffering; her people have tyrannized each other and the other kingdoms for generations.” Dream pointed out bluntly. “And you,” her eyes narrowed at Eshura with suspicion, “you knew this, and kept it from me all these years until I had to see it with mine own eyes.”  
Visibly shaken now, the old healer inquired, “What are you saying?”  
“This is not my kingdom; I am not Aradomorian.” Now that the ice was broken, the storm of pent-up words was rising faster than Eshura or Dream could hold back. “The Aradomorians have enslaved the people of the other kingdoms; treating them worse than animals, making sport of their misery and their own throne is drenched in the blood of kings who took up the crown only to have it taken from them in a matter of days.”  
“Those men who came here…the people they took away…” Dream dropped her voice to a low, bitter whisper. “You knew why; you hid the truth of their disappearance from me and tried to tell me that things like that were natural here and I shouldn’t worry.”  
“It is natural here in Aradomoria.” Eshura replied firmly. “It is how these people have been since the time of the Sundering when the Deonic split into two kingdoms. And there is nothing anyone has been able to do that can change this cycle. Many have tried, and failed.”  
A thin, almost transparent, smile curved Dream’s lips for a fleeting moment. “Yes, I’ve been told that too.” She answered absently.  
Her near-mother cast a sharp glance at her. “Who has been telling you these things?”  
Dream shrugged; she no longer felt inclined to converse the matter further. She pushed herself away from the wall with a jerk, and half-turned from the room. “Was there anything you needed?” she asked reluctantly.  
But Eshura wasn’t going to lighten up. She motioned Dream to come and sit at the table. The girl obeyed, seating herself at the far end and regarding her near-mother with a passive, expression look. “Dream, who have you been talking to about these things?”  
“Just a few people I met a several moons ago.” Came the stoic reply.  
“Why didn’t you come to me?” Eshura asked, immediately regretting ever letting the words form in her mind. She saw Dream tense up, and how her dark eyes gleamed with a distant coldness.  
“You know why.”  
The old healer sighed, and kneaded her hands together in keen disappointment and sorrow. “And how do you know what they say is the truth?” she pushed on despite a heavy discomfort in her chest.  
“Because,” Dream’s voice took on a faraway ring, and her shoulders flinched as if at old memories. “because they showed me…what you hid from me.” Her eyes lit up like embers in the depths of night as she looked up sharply. “They showed me how Aradomorians are really.”  
“Maker’s breath!” Eshura brought her open palm down on the table with an indignant look. “They dared show such things to you?”  
Dream eyed her strangely. “Secrets are never hidden forever. I’m glad…in a way, that I know now.” She stood up and stared out the window, her arms hugging her slim waist. Her long hair hung down her shoulders in straight dark locks that gleamed in the flickering hearth-light, and her deep eyes glinted with a cold passion easily stirred. Her face held a distant, yet purposeful expression, as of being in deep thought or meditation.  
Eshura gazed at her with fondness and sorrow in her eyes. She saw, by her gift of foresight, a glimpse of the life this child would soon take, and the death and agony she saw made her cringe inwardly. She shuddered and shook her head as images of blood and betrayal clouded her mind, driving away all thoughts of what else lay ahead. Myst plunged her vision into darkness, and she clutched at her throat convulsively.  
“Near-mother?” Dream caught her as she staggered, and steadied her swaying figure in her arms. “Near-mother?” she repeated in rising concern as the old woman failed to show response. With a gentle push she settled Eshura on the bench more securely and held her till she showed signs of recovering.  
“Are you alright?” she inquired as the healer groaned and raised her head in a dazed manner, staring emptily about the room.  
Eshura’s eyes burned into Dream’s, and her voice shook as though battered by a thousand storms. “Dream, you mustn’t….you’ll only get yourself killed if you follow them!”  
“Who?” Dream leaned closer.  
The healer said no more. She slumped forward into unconsciousness, leaving Dream bewildered at her cryptic and half-slurred words. With the knowledge she had gleaned from years of watching her near-mother work among the villagers whenever they were ill or wounded, she made Eshura comfortable and lingered by her side till the shadows of night fell over Hinn once again.  
A wolf’s scream echoed across the fields outside the village, and was taken up by others of the pack further on. Dream glanced out the window and then back down to the still form of her near-mother lying on the low bunk. She knew it was time again. But the loyalties she now shared pulled her in divided paths. She tried to assure herself that it would only be for another night, and then she’d be back in the morning like before. Surely her near-mother would be recovered by that time. She slowly drew on her cloak and hood and snuffed out the softly-flickering lamp.  
At the door, she paused and looked back uneasily. Something akin to dread lingered at the edge of her mind, causing her thoughts to pause. She felt as if she would never look upon Hinn again as it was now. With a mental shake of her head, she pushed such anxiety away and lifted the latch. Stepping out, the door closed behind her, shrouding the hut in darkness, but her whispered words as she left lingered like frost before dawn’s first light in the silent dwelling.  
“I will be back.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER II

Stars glimmered overhead as Dream made her way stealthily through the tangled boughs and undergrowth of the night-enshrouded forrest that stretched from the borders of Hinn down to the broad waters of Lake Evermirror. Ferns rustled slightly against the knee-length skirts of her outer tunic, and low-hanging branches slapped against the sides of her leather boots. Pausing with one hand on the scuffed bark of a beech, she drew in her breath sharply and closed her eyes. The feeling of unease had not left her since she had entered the forrest; indeed, here she could sense it keener than before.  
Ignoring it, she pressed onwards through the gloom to where the trees gave way to a wide, secluded glade. Near the far end a rise of boulders guarded the entrance to a natural cave, where a clear stream bubbled out over its rocky bed and meandered away into the deeper eaves. Embers of a recent fire glowered near the cave mouth, illuminating the figure of a tall, muscular man who crouched nearby.  
He looked up at her approach, and his masked and hooded face swivelled to scrutinize her with watchful caution. His deep grey eyes cleared as she stepped forward with one hand clenched over her chest, and he rose to give the same sign in return. “Dream,” he inclined his head in greeting. “You’re early tonight. Ready for our raid?” he questioned.  
“Yes.” She replied with a determination that was slightly dampened by the uneasy feeling in her heart she could not shake.  
Davryan eyed her slowly for several minutes, then nodded and addressed his gaze towards the cave entrance. “Kyzeinac!”  
A man matching his height, but looking leaner and more rugged made his appearance at the edge of the boulders. The harsh and worn features of his hardened expression betrayed past struggles, giving him an unusually stern and stoical glance. His eerie yellow eyes burned through the night’s gloom as he gazed across the clearing. “Captain, we’re all ready here.”  
“Good, we can start out at once then.” Davryan sounded relieved as he bent closer to the dying embers to tighten several straps in his left gauntlet.  
“Reorren is still out on patrol.” Kyzeinac reminded him patiently as he nodded to confirm the other man’s orders. He stepped back inside the cave for a brief instance before re-emerging with a blade sheathed at his back and a masked hood over his uncompromising features.  
Davryan straightened up with a puzzled look in his eyes. “Oh yes, I forgot for a minute.” He said apologetically, turning and sending a piercing whistle like a bird’s cry echoing into the night air. It was answered almost immediately by a similar call to the north.  
A slim, delicate-featured girl strode from the cave entrance, putting the final twists to a thin braid of deep honey-coloured hair. Her lake-blue eyes smiled at Dream as she noticed her standing somewhat aloof from the embers of the fire. The other girl forced a nod of greeting in return; the presence of the young Aradomorian making her feel awkward and wary.  
“Telrona is coming,” the Aradomorian informed Davryan in quiet, almost muted tones. “She insisted on bringing her full kit with her.”  
The leader nodded as he proceeded to stamp out the last embers of their fire. “Thanks Jarlai. Have you seen G’hornad?” he asked, straightening up and dusting ash from the sides of his surcoat.  
The appearance of a wiry, morose-faced man at the cave’s mouth spared Jarlai answering, and it was clear from the unpleasant glance she gave him that she would have preferred not to anyway. He gave Davryan a lop-sided nod and slid his silver eyes over Dream with indifference and contempt.  
“Why her?” he asked bluntly.  
Davryan, in the act of drawing his hood on, paused and swung his lynx-grey eyes towards the Dalic in questioning surprise. “What do you mean?”  
G’hornad stuck his long chin out, “She’s not one of us; why does she need to come? She has no stake in this matter.”  
Dream glared at him indignantly, but a level look from Kyzeinac warned her to let Davryan handle the affair, and she remained silent. Jarlai shifted uncomfortably and hugged herself, half-wishing she could step back inside the cave or at least go beyond earshot into the trees.  
Davryan eyed the Dalic squarely as he replied in a calm, firm voice. “Dream knows the area well, better than of us, so she is acting as our guide just as she has in the past. If something should go wrong, she also knows the best paths of escape and evasion.”  
G’hornad frowned sullenly; his glance shifted from Davryan to Dream than back to his leader again, almost as if weighing her worth in his mind. “She has no place here.” He insisted darkly.  
“You have no place to question the captain’s decision.” Kyzeinac silenced him in grating tones that demanded obedience, whether it was given willingly or not. “You follow, or you stay here. Unless you have knowledge of the area, keep your mouth shut and be satisfied with the guide we have.”  
The Dalic shot him a withering, half-smirking look, and for a minute their glances locked in a mental combat of will. G’hordan quickly dropped his eyes though; he felt keenly uncomfortable under the Tethdorian’s piercing gaze, and gave a reluctant nod. “As you wish then.” He shrugged, clearly shaking off any responsibility should things take a turn for the worse.  
“Sorry for the wait!” A pert voice broke the uncanny silence that followed the short dispute, and the small, agile form of a young girl sprang nimbly from the break in the boulders. She flicked a lock of shimmering moon-sliver hair back from her roguish expression and her large luminous green eyes flashed in the night. “I couldn’t find my acid flask…it rolled into the food stores when I emptied my pack.”  
“The food supplies?” Jarlai gasped in horror. “I hope it didn’t leak, Telrona!”  
“No, no, of course it didn’t.” the Vakaric shrugged carelessly. She grinned at Dream. “Hey, you coming with us again?”  
Dream nodded silently, but the open friendliness of the younger girl thawed her out a bit, and she managed a warm smile in return.  
“We’re ready, Captain.” Kyzeinac announced, indicating Reorren’s lean figure standing wordlessly near the edge of camp. The scout had come during the Dalic’s disagreement, and waited in silence as it was smoothed out.  
Davryan glanced over his shoulder, not having heard his approach. “Reorren, how’s the road? Quiet?”  
A slow nod in the darkness was the only answer he received. He fastened his mask in place and summoned his small group of followers around him with a single motion of his hand. Like shadows of an approaching storm, they glided from their secret haunt and disappeared into the trees. Shrouded by the night and with the moon hidden behind a veil of dense clouds, they moved unseen and unheard through the thick undergrowth of the forrest. Gradually the trees thinned from their close ranks, and broke away altogether at the rise of a narrow ridge that cut its way jaggedly down towards a stream whose dark waters churned over jet-black stones that gleamed like dull blades in the gloom.  
Obsidian shapes of towers and walls marched against the deep blue of the night sky, and from their midst glared golden-red points like glowering coals of a furnace. The small group stared down at the fortress with grave contemplation; each weighing in their minds the risks of infiltrating such a heavily-guarded bastion in the valiant effort to rescue the missing member of their close-knit and fragile band. Tiny shapes of sentries moving along the walls were barely visible from their vantage on the hill, and the low, deep tolling of the tower bell signalling the change of the hour and new watch sent unbidden chills down the backs of the infiltrators.  
“How do we get in there?” Telrona whispered in awe. Her luminous eyes, a typical trait of her race, blinked in fascination at the bulwarks, and the sound of the bell sent a thrill of curiousity through her being.  
Davryan nudged Dream. “Not the main gate I hope.”  
“There’s an entrance by the wall under the tower alcove,” she replied in a muted voice, eyes on the castle. “The stream flows beneath the fortress to take out the waste; it goes directly through the dungeons. We can sneak in and out without having to even pass the front gate.”  
“So…we’re going through the sewers?” Jarlai inquired dryly.  
Dream nodded. “Basically.”  
The Aradomorian sucked in her breath sharply, and shuddered at the mere thought of such an undertaking. G’hordan’s sneering voice floated through the night air. “Perhaps her highness should have-”  
“G’hordan.” Davryan’s voice was firm but without anger. The Dalic shut his mouth with a click of his jaws, but Dream sensed his keen scorn, and her distrust of him grew. She shifted her elbows in the short, rough grass and waited while Davryan and Kyzeinac conversed in Tethdorian to her right. The night wind caressed her brow, and she wanted to take off her mask so she could feel its soothing touch against her cheeks. But she quelled the urge and re-focused her mind on the dangerous task at hand.  
Instead she found herself thinking about her near-mother. In the journey here she had forgotten for a while about her, and the feeling of dread had lessened as the distance between her and Hinn grew. But now in this small pause, she felt it nagging at her heart again. No matter how many times she told herself that she would be back at first light, she could not shake it. Anxiety began to form in her mind; thoughts that maybe something was very wrong, a feeling that maybe she should never have left the village this night, and yet an urging to see this mission through no matter what lay ahead.  
“Dream?” Davryan’s voice close by her ear brought her back to the present. “You alright?”  
She turned to him, “What? Yes, I’m ready.”  
Again he eyed her strangely for several minutes before nodding slowly. “Then let’s get down there, it’s an hour till midnight and I want to be far from here before the first light of dawnsun.”  
Dream pulled herself up into a crouching position and led the way cautiously down the steep, rock-scattered ridge. Davryan and Kyzeinac followed directly at her heels, while Jarlai and G’hornad moved in behind them. Telrona came next, and Reorren brought up the rear, keeping a sharp look-out on the left and right. They made their slow way down to the stream and crossed the murky waters close by the keep walls.  
In the darkness they could hear the tramp of heavy boots and clink of armour above them as the sentries went by on their ceaseless vigil. Nearer still, was the sound of water running past rock and steel. In the gloom, Dream and her companions could make out a low, narrow opening close to the ground in the wall where the stream flowed out from the inner confines of stones. Crouching low, Dream entered first.  
Inside, the air was dank and reeked with the stench of neglected waste and refuge that had stuck in recesses and left to fester. There was an eerie green light that dimly lit up the close passage, and they could see by that feeble light a course of water running through the middle of the tunnel. Surprised at the sudden intrusion, an unusually large and plump rat dropped the rotten scrap of bread it had been gnawing on and scurried away with a shrill squeak. Jarlai stifled a scream, but her face paled and she shivered as the ugly creature whisked into the encroaching gloom beyond.  
“It’s just a rat.” Telrona assured her softly, a laugh in her voice.  
“These tunnels run through-out the entire system of dungeons here.” Dream said, peering ahead keenly. She kept her voice low and cautious. “The guards don’t come down here, but if we’re too loud they will hear us and come to investigate.” She warned quietly, an eye on Jarlai.  
The Aradomorian caught her glance. “I’m sorry. I’ll try not to make any sudden moves or anything.” She promised softly.  
“No harm done yet.” Davryan’s voice came from behind her. He nodded to Dream, “Lead the way; you know these tunnels best.”  
She gave a swift jerk of her head in confirmation, and strode forward, bent forward slightly as the tunnel sagged further in. Apart from the swish of the water against their boots as they walked, and the occasional squeal of a rat or mouse disturbed by their presence, the air was strangely quiet and still. Somewhere above them, a heavy weight slammed to the floor, followed by a thud and the sound of yelling.  
“We’re beneath the main hall now.” Dream informed them, pausing with one hand against the slime-sleeked wall and glancing upwards. Water dripped from the stone, splashing down at their feet with cold echoes.  
They continued onwards. After what seemed like hours, Dream halted again where the tunnel forked, and pointed left. “This will take us to the dungeons. The door is locked though, I never ventured far beyond this point anyway.”  
“It won’t be a problem.” Telrona replied confidently, patting the various small pouches attached to her belt.  
“What were you even doing down here?” Jarlai dared to ask as they moved on once again.  
Dream shrugged. “Nothing much I guess.”  
Jarlai blinked her cyan eyes in surprise. “But what if you were caught? Weren’t you afraid the guards would lock you in the dungeons, or even kill you?” she inquired timidly.  
“Not really,” Dream answered, remembering to keep her voice down. She fell silent, not feeling at ease talking with an Aradomorian. She came to a sharp stop before an iron-barred door; rust and moss clung to the dull grey bars and the iron was flaking from the hinges. She stepped back a pace, and motioned invitingly to Telrona.  
Coming forward, the young Vakaric examined the lock eagerly. “Simple structure on this one…no cross-gears or inter-pins, just three ordinary pins. Won’t take long at all.” She assured them, fishing out several small, slim tools from her right-hip valise and leaning forward with a concentrated look.  
To the others it seemed she had barely inserted her pick into the lock before a welcoming click echoed softly through the tunnel. The door swung open on stiff hinges with a low, drawn-out groan, and the small group found themselves staring up a narrow, steep flight of stone stairs, many of which were cracked and had sections missing. Telrona placed her foot on the first one and tested her weight against it gingerly.  
“This one feels stable,” she noted with a doubtful edge in her voice. “But it would be best to tread them with care…never know if one of them might give way under even the lightest of us.”  
Davryan smiled ruefully beneath his mask, “I don’t think there’s any danger of the stairs collapsing under any of us due to our weight.” Kyzeinac snorted from behind him, though whether it was in amusement or agreement the others could not discern.  
At the top, they stood in a stone passage that ran from east to west, with barred doors marching along both walls marking entrances to numerous cells. Torches spluttered in sconces that hung from the walls, the warm though harsh flames a welcome relief from the eerie glow of the sewers. At the east end, an iron brazier burned by a reinforced door heavily shackled with bars and solid bolts. The west end was guarded by an arched doorway that led up a spiral staircase, and light from a brazier somewhere above flickered down into the dimly-lit passage.  
“These are the dungeons.” Dream turned to Davryan, her voice even lower than it was in the sewers. “Do you know where he is being held?”  
He nodded grimly. “The west tower. Do you know how to get there?” he asked hopefully.  
Dream reached into her outer tunic and removed a folded square of parchment. Smoothing it out in her hands, she studied it under the light of a nearby torch with Davryan and Kyzeinac peering over her shoulders. “If we stay on the lower levels, yes.” She affirmed. Davryan nodded again, then turning to his group he sized them up for several minutes. “Kyzeinac and Dream are with me, Telrona and G’hornad watch the exits. Jarlai, you and Reorren take the west passage and meet up with us at the tower. Let’s find Ethryder and be gone from here.” He ordered with surprising ease, as if he had led armies across battlefields scarred by blood and flames and returned victorious each time. The others acknowledged his orders, but Dream noticed several cast doubtful or uncertain glances at each other. Without a word, they stepped away to take up their assigned positions. Kyzeinac unbarred the east door, and took down a torch from the nearby sconce as the wooden affair creaked open. They stared down the dark corridor that yawned before them, then Davryan strode forward first with Kyzeinac holding the light ahead of him. The keep had fallen strangely silent since they had left the sewers. Nothing could be heard except the quiet tread of their footfalls in the narrow, twisting passage and the sputtering of the torch when a breath of wind passed through from some unseen recess. Suddenly Davryan and Kyzeinac both halted, and the foremost signalled Dream to pause. She watched as Davryan peered cautiously around the turn in the corridor, and saw his eyes narrow in uncertainty. Glancing at Kyzeinac for some explanaition, she saw the Tethdorian shake his head and motion her to come forward carefully. Peering around his arm, Dream saw the corridor merged into another passage running from left to right, while directly ahead stood the sturdy-looking door that led to the west tower. By it stood three burly guards bearing the emblem of the Aradomorian royal house; a faded crest in the shape of a poised eagle over a background of crimson. The royal guard, here? Dream cast an anxious eye towards Davryan, and wondered vaguely if their presence here tonight had been suspected beforehand. She waited, wondering what the two men with her were thinking. The three of them dropped back into the corridor. Davryan looked at Dream, and she saw the uncertainty in his eyes replaced with the fierce determination and will of his hardy race. No number of years, no distance between him and his people, no real knowledge of his own kind, could banish it from his blood. He glanced at Kyzeinac, and the other Tethdorian nodded grimly. “We’ll have to kill them; we have no other choice.” Davryan whispered close to Dream’s ear. She nodded to show she understood, and Davryan moved back to the corner. Looking up, Dream saw that Reorren and Jarlai were waiting at the left-hand passage in the shadows. Davryan was gesturing urgently to Reorren, who kept glancing at him and then at the guards with one eye raised in question. Then he gave a quick nod of his head, moved back a little, and unslung the bow that always hung at his back. Then Davryan turned to Kyzeinac, and inclined his head to the right. Kyzeinac held the torch higher and leaned forward so that the glow of the flames reflected off the wall and were visible from the tower door. Dream saw the guards start, look at each other knowingly, and their grips on their weapons tightened. One drew his sword and took several paces forward, his blade held at the ready should he see anything. Davryan silently unsheathed his blade, and motioned for Dream to stay hidden. As soon as the guard came within reach, Kyzeinac lunged forward, and dragged him into the corridor. Davryan locked one arm around the man’s throat and plunged his sword through his back, the steel tearing through leather and flesh as if they were thin rags. Dream heard the sharp recoil of a bowstring, and glanced up the passage. Reorren’s arrow had taken one guard through the neck, and even as he fell limply to the ground and his companion turned in alarm, another arrow hissed through the air. The guard collapsed with a muffled cry, and his spear clattered to the stone floor with a shrill scrape of iron. “Hurry, get the keys and open the door!” Davryan ordered tensely, jerking his blade out of the guard’s back and wiping it clean along the border of the man’s cloak. Blood pooled on the uneven stone floor, and a dark splash ran across the front of Davryan’s surcoat from when he had wrenched his weapon free. Kyzeinac swiftly searched the guards, and Dream stepped to the other end of the passage to ensure no one had heard the scuffle. She glanced over her shoulder, and saw Jarlai looking pale and sickly as she stared at the dead guards and the crimson stains on the floor with round, frightened eyes. Her gaze went further, and she saw Reorren glaring at the Aradomorian with resentment in his dark, depthless eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

“Jarlai, are you alright?” Davryan moved closer and concern softened the usual firmness of his tones.  
Her cyan eyes blinked away the horror in her expression, and she managed a weak nod. “Yes, I’m fine…I guess I’m not used to this kind of work.” She replied apologetically.  
Davryan was about to reply, but his glance fell on Reorren, and he frowned in disapproval at the scout’s apparent distrust. Feeling himself being watched, Reorren dropped his gaze and moved away to collect his spent arrows from the dead. Kyzeinac straightened up with a key between his thumb and forefinger, and made for the door.  
“He does not trust my kind, Davryan.” Jarlai said in pained undertones, her eyes lowered in shame and remorse. “He has suffered too much at their hands.”  
“That is no reason to hate you for what others have done.” He replied quietly, laying a reassuring hand on her slim shoulder. “You sacrificed much to break away from that viscous cycle; such a stand should be honoured, not despised.”  
The creak of the tower door swinging open stayed any other words of comfort he might have spoken, and Jarlai could only smile at him in thanks. Davryan led the way up the stairs, and sprang into the tower.  
Chains rattled from the far end of the small cell, and Dream squinted through the gloom to see the form of a man standing against the wall.  
“Davryan?”   
“Ethryder!” the young captain rushed eagerly for his oldest friend and close companion. “Are you injured?”  
“Nothing I can’t bear till we’re safely away from this place.” The knight replied stoutly, though his voice was heavy with weariness and hunger. As soon as the chains fell from his wrists and arms though, he fell forward with a groan of suppressed pain, and only Kyzeinac’s strong arm saved him from a hard fall and more bruises.  
The heavy tramp of boots outside made them all glance towards the door, and Reorren sprang back as the head of a spear was thrust towards him. Guards wearing the royal colours of Aradomoria rushed into the dungeon with loud yells, and Dream dodged to the left as a heavy axe narrowly missed her shoulders. Davryan and Reorren cut a bloody path to the door, and cleared the passage of any guards they found waiting outside.  
Cries from upstairs and running feet warned them of more to come; the whole castle seemed to have suddenly awoken from slumber, and their plans of a quick, quiet escape were swiftly dampened in the commotion from above. “Dream, take Ethryder to the exit, Reorren and Jarlai will go with you.” Davryan ordered tersely as he kicked the limp body of a guard aside and strode to the right-hand passage.  
“But what about you, and Kyzeinac?” Jarlai protested anxiously.  
“We’ll hold them here.” Davryan replied on the instant. “Once you get out of the sewers, head north through the forrest. We’ll meet up with you at the Running Crescent.”  
Dream nodded; she knew the place having been there twice since her forays with the Oath first began several moons ago. It was an old inn by the road, barely anyone came that way except lone travellers and maybe a mercenary band or two on their way to the next major city. The Oath had made it their head-quarters, and the innkeeper was sympathetic and supportive to their cause.  
Kyzeinac gave Ethryder to Reorren’s charge and went to stand by his captain. Dream was ready to start down for the dungeons, but Jarlai hesitated, worry clouding her eyes, her alarm growing.   
“The plan was we leave together.” She insisted.  
“From the start, yes.” Davryan answered patiently, though Dream could see he was getting edgy with Jarlai’s hesitation to leave. “Things have changed, and we need to adapt our plans to fit the change. Now go…go!” he ordered with a tinge of sharpness in his voice.  
Dream grabbed Jarlai by the arm and half-dragged, half-forced her down the corridor towards the narrow passage that led back to the sewers. Behind them, the harsh grate of steel against steel made Dream bite her lip in silent relief and also uncertainty; they had left just in time.   
Telrona and G’hornad both showed alarm and consternation as Dream and her remaining companions burst unceremoniously through the passage. The sullen Dalic was quick to notice the absence of the two leaders, and even quicker to point it out.  
“Where’s Davryan?” he demanded.  
No one said anything for several minutes. Dream was desperately hoping someone else, like Reorren, would speak up in answer, but the scout stood silent as always with Ethryder leaning heavily against his lean, narrow shoulder. And Jarlai was shivering with anxiety and fright, still trying to dissolve the sudden and drastic change in their pre-arranged plans.  
“Well?” G’hornad repeated suspiciously.  
“He and Kyzeinac stayed to hold off the guards.” Dream replied hastily, “The rest of us he ordered to leave.”  
The Dalic swivelled his glance to her scornfully. “And who put you in charge, village brat?” he scoffed. “You have no place here.”  
“G’hornad, shut your mouth and follow her lead.” Ethryder’s weak, but commanding tones roused the others. The knight raised himself with difficulty and fixed his clear, grey eyes on the arrogant Dalic. He did not have the iron will or demanding aura that Kyzeinac and other Tethdorians possessed, but there was something about the quiet, stern look he gave G’hornad that made him lapse into reluctant submission.  
Telrona cast a nervous eye towards the passage behind them. “We’re going alone then?” she ventured in subdued tones.  
Dream nodded and led the way down the steep stairs, being careful to test each one as she went. Half-way down, a sharp crack followed by a sudden shuffle, made her glance over her shoulder questioningly. Jarlai came flying towards her with a cry of fright, vainly attempting to stop her fall by flaying her arms around for a secure hold. Dream had no time to decide whether she should get out of the way or try and catch her; the others were all in a tangled heap behind the Aradomorian. She was caught in the chaos and thrown from her feet as Jarlai and all the others slammed full into her.  
Slimy green water slapped against the walls as they landed at the foot of the staircase with a sickening crunch, and for a while they lay sprawled in a daze of pain and bewilderment. Dream felt sharp twinges in her chest as she moved, and she could feel hot blood trickling from somewhere above her left eye. Stiffly and gingerly, she crawled out from beneath Telrona’s moaning form and surveyed their condition in the eerie gloom.  
“Is…everyone alright?” Jarlai’s soft voice shook in the dim light.  
“What happened??” G’hornad spluttered as he pulled himself up with an air of wounded dignity. He looked down at his soiled tunic and picked at the muddy water dripped from his sleeves with a distasteful pucker on his lips. “Which clumsy son of an oafish lout tripped back there?”  
Telrona giggled in spite of everything and flung water from her silver hair with a toss of her head. Nursing battered elbows and a bruised eye, she scrambled to her feet, and peered back up the stairs. “They’ve collapsed; the stairs are all broken.” She reported to the others, who were slowly getting back to their feet and gathering their shaken senses together.  
“The guards won’t be able to follow us this way then…if they manage to get past Davryan and Kyzeinac.” Dream realized aloud. “We need to get moving again.”  
Reorren staggered back to his feet, and attempted to help Ethryder up. But his lean frame did not have the strength anymore to hold the knight up, and he paused in silent indecision. Dream wasn’t about to ask G’hornad to help, and Jarlai’s slim form seemed to plead for exemption from heavy labour. She turned to Telrona.  
“Rona, do you remember the way back through the sewers?” she asked, going forward and taking one side of Ethryder while motioning Reorren to take the other. Surprise and slight reluctance glimmered in his dark eyes, but he obeyed in wordless compliance.  
“Yes, I do.” The young Vakaric nodded eagerly. Her quick figure glided on ahead while the others followed at a slower pace. The trek back through the sewers was silent and reflective, and once outside they paused beneath the alcove to catch their breath. In the short respite, the full realization of their missing companions fell on them with grim force.  
Dream sensed their unease, and she herself felt concern for the two men still inside the keep, no doubt in deep peril of their lives. She urged them to keep moving. “Davryan said to make for the forrest and then on to the Running Crescent.” She repeated his last instructions, her hushed voice a faint echo in the night.  
“That’s right…” Jarlai seemed to have roused herself from the despair that had gripped her earlier. But she paused, and eyed the sky over the treetops in the distance keenly. “What is that red glow I see?” she asked in muted tones.  
“Red glow?”  
The others swung their attention to where she indicated. Over the trees hung a deep, crimson aura, and against the night sky the stars seemed strangely dimmed.   
“We should move from here, it’s not safe to linger.” Ethryder reminded them quietly.  
Once in the eaves of the forrest though, they stopped again. The air was strangely heavy and silent, as if danger lurked in the deeper glades. Telrona screwed up her face, “I smell smoke.” She announced matter-of-factly.  
“Smoke?” Dream jerked her head up.   
Jarlai grabbed her arm, “Dream, it’s your village!” she cried in alarm and terror. “Hinn is burning!”  
She stared at the Aradomorian, and then threw a look down the living hall of boughs and leaves. “My village?” A sudden chill ran up her shoulders, than that feeling she hadn’t been able to shake... “I have to go back.”  
“What? No!” Jarlai shook her head adamantly. “The place is probably all in flames now, you have to stay with us.”  
Dream glared at her and shook off her hold. “That’s my home! My near-mother could be in danger, I have to go back!”  
“Why sure, go ahead and run back to those filth-infested huts.” G’hornad waved her off with both hands haughtily. “It’s not like we need you to guide us anymore.”  
Dream glanced at Ethryder, and the knight nodded slowly. “We’ll make it on our own, child.” He replied in answer to her unspoken question.  
“Be safe.” Telrona laid a hand on her arm momentarily. Her mischievous eyes were unusually serious, making them look even larger in the darkness. Dream nodded, then turned and ran into the trees without a backward glance.

Eshura woke in the darkness of her hut with the keen sense that danger was very near. She had but to glance out the window to confirm her feeling; searing red flames engulfed all the village that she could see, and the screams of the frightened inhabitants were mingled with the cries of soldiers and the thunder of warhorses. She paled, and for a brief second was about to call for Dream.  
Then she stopped, half in relief, half in fear. Dream wasn’t here. As the old healer fumbled in the folds of her robe, she desperately hoped her near-daughter was somewhere far away and safe. She drew out a amulet from her robes, and the dim, colourless stone glimmered with a blue light once her fingers passed over its surface. Closing her eyes, she felt the stone warm in her grasp.  
“Gallandrin! Hear me!”  
“Eshura” a voice, aged as the mountains yet as strong as the seas, answered through her mind. All other sounds faded away as the two Binders conversed, and the healer grew oblivious to the raging flames outside in the village. “After all these years of denial, now you come to me again?”  
“Old friend, this is no time for your rebuke. The Blaideish are here; Vorzil’s men are here for the heir.”  
“The heir?” the voice took on a strange ring of urgency. “Is she safe?”  
Eshura paused in her reply; she knew she did not have much time before the soldiers found her, but she barely knew how to answer the older seer.   
“Eshura, is the Highmourn child safe?”  
“I do not know, Gallandrin.”  
“Don’t know? She is your charge! You know how much is in peril should she be found and killed. Where is she?”  
“Gallandrin, you do not know Dream, you don’t know what she has become in all these years.” Eshura pleaded, all the while expecting to hear her door bashed in.  
A sigh very much like a groan of dread echoed through her mind as the other seer responded. “Does she even know? Please tell me you at least told her of who she is.”  
“No…she knows nothing, she is not ready to know.”  
“What?!”  
A loud crash broke Eshura’s concentration, and she started up with a gasp of fear as soldiers burst in. Torches burned in their hands, the hungry flames gleaming against the blood-stained swords they held. The healer saw the royal emblem of the Blaideish house emblazoned across the fronts of their cuirasses, and hastily she hid her amulet.  
A voice, dripping with cruel pleasure, shouted from outside. “Find the Highmourn heir – kill all who stand in your path!”


	4. Chapter 4

His horse shied back and whinnied.  
King Dyanro saw the rider, dark against the cloudy horizon, whisk his small mount around and gallop behind the ridge. He glanced down, and saw the brown-feathered shaft protruding from his mount’s front, just shy of the left shoulder. A thin trickle of blood dripped down the white caparison, and the beast nickered uneasily, biting down on its bridle bit.  
The knight to his right raised one armoured hand, and through the narrow slit of his full helm, scanned the flat plains sharply. Behind them, the king’s escort drew rein, bringing their armoured steeds to a brisk halt.  
“Bandits?” Dyanro turned to the warrior on his right. He rubbed a soothing hand up his horse’s neck, calming its agitation and checking its spirited prancing.  
General Tescar shook his head, his right hand taking a firmer grip on the polished shaft of his lance. “No bandit no matter how brazen would dare attack the royal standard. I would say they are Aradomorians, my Liege.”  
The old king nodded, knowing full well the truth behind his friend’s shrewd guess. He kept his eyes on the ridge before them, waiting for the rider to appear again. His knights waited; their warhorses shifted their vast, hairy hooves on the turf and tossed their heavy heads. Sunlight cut through the clouds, gleaming against their damascened chamfrons and catching the glint against the knights’ shields. “We’re in the open here.” He observed.  
“They will be vulnerable once they leave the cover of the ridge.” Tescar replied confidently.  
“If they do.” Dyanro added dryly.  
The general smirked beneath his helm. “They will – Aradomorians are arrogant, and that makes them predictable.”  
No sooner had he spoken, then the light drum of approaching hooves made the Amateuthian warhorses prick up their ears and snuff the wind with their nostrils. A group of horsemen swept up the ridge and urged their small mounts towards the king’s out-numbered band. Arrows whizzed and snapped through the air, and the more spirited of the warhorses sprang forward eagerly; their riders quickly restrained their fiery natures and looked to the king.  
“Shields up!” General Tescar ordered calmly, bringing the top of his broad, three-cornered shield up to the rim of his helm. “Lances!”  
The knights swiftly ranged up, their lances gleaming in the sun. Their steeds surged forward at the slight word of command, gathering speed as they moved ahead to meet the oncoming riders. The ground shook under the thunder of their hooves. Arrows snapped harmlessly off the cuirasses of the knights, or streaked past the armoured caparisons of their mounts. The intervening space lessened, and the Amateuthians lowered their lances, forming a deadly hedge of glinting steel.  
The Aradomorians kept on coming though, foolhardy and bent on trying to dislodge this thorn in their master’s eyes. Dust and small bits of earth momentarily blurred the impact as both groups crashed head-long into each other. The screams of horses and clash of steel rose in one shrill crescendo skywards as the Amateuthian lances ripped into the Aradomorian ranks, throwing riders and horses to the ground where they were trampled by the heavy hooves of the massive Amateuthian warhorses.  
In these close quarters, the knights drew their swords and engaged in tight combat with their attackers. A Aradomorian mare, thrown to the ground with her rider, scrambled up in panic only to have her stomach gutted by the lowered lance of another knight. Her piercing death scream cut across the battlefield as she fell kicking and writhing to the ground. More Aradomorian riders fell beneath the charge of the Amateuthian knights, but more kept coming from the ridge. No sooner would the last rider fall, then the next wave would sweep down to take their place, giving King Dyanro and his men no time for respite.   
His lines were breaking up; the constant harrying by the archers was scattering his few knights and leaving them open to attacks from multiple enemies at once. Even as he drove his blade into the heart of an Aradomorian soldier, he saw through the corner of one eye a knight bearing his own emblem go down with a spear in his back. The fallen knight’s warhorse reared back with a shrill whistle, flaying his hooves and striking another horse across the muzzle.  
Dyanro saw the Aradomorian archers on the ridge suddenly pause and then scatter in all directions with alarmed yells and panic-stricken cries. He became aware of thunder in the wind again, deep and strong like the charge of his own knights, but with greater intensity and speed. A line of strange riders topped the crest of the hill, riding down the feeble mares of the Aradomorians and then sweeping around to bear down on the ones below in the valley.   
The sharp whistle of steel through the air reminded him suddenly that he was still in danger, and he swerved just in time to avoid the stroke of a blade that may well have cost him his life. The Aradomorian lurched from the saddle, spitting blood from his mouth. Tescar rode up alongside the king, giving him a knowing look while flicking fresh blood from the blade of his sword. “That was a close one, my Liege.”  
“My thanks, old friend.” Dyanro nodded. He gazed over the plain; what Aradomorians were left were trying to flee across the field with several of his knights and the newcomers in swift pursuit. He took a closer look, and recognized the silver and blue banners with surprise and astonishment.   
“Tyth’Kadarshi, the elite knights of the Tethdor’s personal guard.” Tescar saw the king’s questioning look, and confirmed his unspoken question. “They must have taken the same road we did to Wolf’s Bastion.”  
“Indeed.” The king agreed.  
“Dyanro, you old bear!” a deep, commanding voice called across the battlefield, and the king turned to see an armoured rider approaching. The mantle of his full, winged helm fluttered across his shoulders in the breeze, and the raised sigils of a wolf’s head adorned the heavy buckles of his fur-lined cloak. He gripped a dusky-silver blade in one hand, carved with runes up the hilt and set with black sapphires. His sable cuirass etched with gold and crimson was splashed with streaks of blood, and gave him an imposing appearance.  
He gripped the king’s arm in a warrior’s hold and gave it a tight squeeze. “Thought you’d have all the fun without me, eh?”  
“Tethdor Halkutar Duskmarch,” Dyanro returned the grip with a deep-throated chuckle. “I did not expect to see you on the road here. Your timely aid is most welcome and appreciated.”  
“Yes, we had our own run-in with these traitors.” The Tethdorian warlord nodded as he removed his mantled helm and set it against one knee. His eerie golden eyes, a common feature among his race, swept the battlefield as he watched the knights riding among the dead, finding their fallen and wounded. “One of my generals scouted ahead and brought word that a large Aradomorian force was lying in ambush here. And so, here we are.” He shrugged as if a battle while enroute to a royal council was a daily occurrence.  
“I doubt you regret having to divert your course.” Tescar replied, knowing full well Tethdorians never passed a chance for a good fight, especially if it broke the monotone of a long road.  
Halkutar grinned, than his features grew serious again. “Aradomorians this deep in Amateuth is disturbing. What that lout of a king Ostor is thinking by sending men here is absurd in the least.”  
Dyanro nodded. “And with the turmoil in Bladerelna, we can hardly turn to them as we would have in the past.”  
The Tethdor frowned. “The usurpation of the traitor Sateinak and his oafish descendant who now claims the throne was not the fault of the Highmourn House.”  
The Amateuthian king gathered up his reins and wheeled his horse about. “No indeed, and it will be dealt with in time. The Maker will not suffer the Blaideish people to live under such tyranny for long. But now that we are both here, what say we continue on to Wolf’s Bastion together?”  
“I think that would be wise.” Halkutar answered, slipping his helm back over his head and sheathing his blade at his back.  
“Your Majesty,” a knight rode up and saluted the king. “the Aradomorians have been routed, those who didn’t fall to us have fled eastwards.” He reported.  
“Well done, Korral.” Dyanro voiced his approval. “What are our casualties?”  
The knight glanced over the area briefly before turning back to his lord. “We lost three knights, Sire, and several of our number are wounded, though not too seriously.”  
“Get the wounded on horses, and see that our dead are not left to carrion.” The king ordered. “The birds can feast off the Aradomorians today.”  
“At once, my king.” Korral confirmed his command and rode towards his companions.  
“Amateuthian knights fight well, under the circumstances.” A Tethdorian knight sitting astride a dark bay charger near the Tethdor, observed musingly. “The Warfront has hardened them.”  
Tescar turned to the speaker and nodded. “But we still do not rival the might of the Tethdorians; the resolve and strength of your people is legendary among the Knights of the Sacred Flame. Our knights have learned much from those of you who fight with us on the Warfront.”  
The Tethdorian bowed his head. “To teach, to pass on one’s knowledge, is a great honour. Your words ring with meaning and truth, General Tescar, yet you should acknowledge the strengths of your own people.”  
“Amateuth has grown much since she took on the duty of guarding the Warfront, and the daily sacrifices she makes to preserve the Alliance of Crowns from the Darh’meir drazil demands high respect and honour.” Another Tethdorian knight standing by the Tethdor added in deep tones.  
Halkutar glanced at Dyanro, “You have heard of my predecessor, the Tethdor Halnuran Duskhearth, no?”  
“Yes, I have.” The Amateuthian king replied. “He ruled during the usurpation of Sateinak, and valiantly defended his realm from that viper’s fangs.”  
The Tethdor nodded, and waved a hand towards the two knights by him. “These are of his blood-line, and serve me well as Generals in the Tyth’Kadarshi, and lords of Clan Dusk. Allow me to make known to you, Danuran Dusktreader and Kazneran Duskwhisper.”  
“I am honoured to stand in their presence.” Dyanro turned to them with admiration and wonder in his eyes.  
“Likewise, sire.” They returned the sign of respect.  
“My knights are ready to move on,” the king addressed Halkutar as Tescar moved away to join the knights of his escort. “Wolf’s Bastion will welcome you and your following.”

The heavy iron-sheathed gates of Wolf’s Bastion swung inwards at the approach of its lord and the King of Amateuth. The Tethdorians guided their horses into the court alongside their allies and dismounted swiftly at the command of their warlord, who was sizing up the thick walls and sturdy towers with his keen, battle eyes. “This is a well-built fortress.” He commented, swinging from the saddle and handing his lance to one of his knights.  
“One of the jewels of my realm.” Dyanro replied with a smile as he dismounted and examined the arrow in his horse’s shoulder. He cocked an eye towards Tescar, “He keeps it well.”  
The doors to the citadel were flung open, and the armoured figure of a female strode from the hall. Her white-hemmed cloak of grey swept gracefully behind her as she came forward and knelt on one knee with a hand over her heart. Rising she removed her full helm, dark bronze hair spilling down her capable shoulders as she straightened up.  
“Welcome to Wolf’s Bastion, my Liege.” She greeted in warm tones, extending a smile towards Tescar before turning back to the king. “I have made preparations for your arrival; no doubt you are weary from the road and in need of refreshment.”  
Dyanro smiled at her fondly. “My thanks, Commander Kisaye. It will be good to rest these old bones after such a tiring time in the saddle. Has the Princess Lithandre arrived yet?” he inquired with a touch of anxiety in his voice.  
Kisaye nodded, though some of the warmth faded from her expression at the mention of the princess. “She arrived this morning.” She answered slowly.  
“Excellent!” Dyanro didn’t seem to notice her lack of enthusiasm. “The Tethdor has arrived with us, I trust his accommodations have been seen to?”  
“Indeed they have.” She replied briskly. “I shall have the servants show you to your quarters now if you are ready.”  
“Good idea, we have things to discuss before the evening meal, and I am expecting a traveller to come here later on tonight.” The king decided.  
Commander Kisaye gave him a questioning eye, but nodded. “Very well, sire, I shall inform the guard on the gate.” she motioned to a page standing near the hall. “If you please my lords, Aerohn will show you to your rooms now.”  
The king and the Tethdor, followed by their knights, headed for the citadel and disappeared inside. Stable-hands came forward to take charge of the horses, and Kisaye drew Tescar aside into the shadows of the wall. “You’re late.” She stated with playful rebuke in her warm tones. Her clear cyan eyes ran up his figure and her fingers traced a streak of blood across his left shoulderguard. “Trouble on the road?”  
“Aradomorians,” he replied in a low voice, his grey eyes locked with hers’. “If the Tethdor hadn’t known about the ambush, we might not have made it at all.”  
Her eyes widened and she drew in her breath sharply. “Truly?”  
He nodded, and drew her closer to himself, passing his arms around her waist and back. “The king almost lost his life…would have if I hadn’t seen in time.” He recalled the scene gravely, mentally chiding himself for not keeping better watch over his lord.  
“Maker knows we need King Dyanro now more than ever.” Kisaye said with a soft sigh. “The princess Lithandre is…” she paused, unsure how to word her thought.  
“…a spoilt brat with no thought or care except for herself and how much power she will wield once she is queen.” Tescar finished her sentence with a trace of harshness in his voice. “The king has left her to herself while he worries over matters he should leave to his councillors.”  
Kisaye nodded, though she frowned a little. “Not the nicest thing to say about her, but it is the truth sadly.”  
Tescar gave her a quick hug, “Come, it’s been a long day, and I must go attend to the king soon enough. How about we share a few precious minutes together instead of fretting over things?” he smiled invitingly.  
Once alone in their bedchamber, Tescar slipped his helm off and set it on the sideboard with a long-drawn sigh. He poured himself a goblet of dark wine from a glass flagon, and perched one hip on the edge of the table while sipping his drink thoughtfully. Kisaye watched him from her seat by the window, tracing the work on her dagger hilt with two fingers. Her eyes rested on his battle-hardened and weathered features, marking each scar in turn and recalling the events that had placed them there.  
“You’re tired.” She noted quietly.  
“You’re very observant tonight.” He returned in an amused voice.  
She gave him a crooked smile. “No, you are tired, but it’s more than physical weariness. Isn’t it?”  
“Maybe.” He set his goblet down and turned his grey eyes to her. “They are growing bolder, Kisaye. King Dyanro knows war is just beyond our sight, and yet he tried to forget it. With Bladerelna in turmoil, with Aradomoria in chaos, with Tethdoria threatened from the west, what will become of Amateuth? The old alliances are falling to dust and ashes under these usurping dogs who claim thrones they murdered entire blood-lines for.”  
“Not everyone is breaking their oaths.” Kisaye consoled him gently. “Those are just the affairs of the surface, the deeds of men who have forgotten what trust and honour are.”  
He waited for her to go on.  
“It is not kings who make a kingdom, my beloved, but the people.” She looked down, unsure whether she was going beyond her place in saying this. “A vow a king breaks, does not mean all his people have broken it too.”  
She came and sat on his knee; taking his chin in the cup of her hands and looking deep in his eyes, she saw the resolve and endurance she always saw in him. “My vow to you, I will never break, no matter what is to come. If the Warfront falls, if the Aradomorians enslave us all, if the Blaideish under Vorzil burn our lands, I will still be by your side.”  
Tescar smiled faintly as he brushed aside a lock of hair that had slipped across her face. “Sometimes I think you would serve this kingdom better as queen than knight commander.”  
She blushed and laughed softly. “I serve where I am placed.” She leaned closer, resting her head against his chest and entwining her arms around his shoulders. “And right now, that place is here, with you.”  
He kissed her hair, basking in the comforting warmth of her presence as he felt her heart beat against his. She was strong in so many things, and her faith and hope sometimes made him pause and wonder if he perhaps was failing in some area. “My vow to you will always stand too, no matter what.” He whispered in her ear.  
“I know.” She answered simply, raising her head and smiling. They gazed deep into each other’s eyes, leaning closer. But before their lips could touch, a loud, urgent knock rattled the door.  
“General Tescar!” the voice of Korral sounded slightly muffled.  
“What is it, boy?” Tescar called back, straightening up with an apologetic smile at Kisaye. She leaned back in his arms, a roguish grin playing at the corners of her lips.  
Sensing that perhaps he had disturbed an intimate moment, the knight dropped some of the imperious urgency from his tone. “The king has called for your presence in the war chamber.”  
“Very well, I’m coming.” Tescar answered, suppressing a sigh.  
Kisaye slipped from his knee and handed him his helmet with a warming smile. “Don’t worry, we still have tonight to be together.” She reminded him.  
“If I ever get to bed.” He growled in ill-humour and vexation. “Three weeks away, and I can’t get three minutes alone with my wife.” But Kisaye saw the gleam in his eyes, and knew he was only feigning his grumpiness. She laughed in her throat and kissed him on the cheek, pushing him towards the door.  
King Dyanro looked up as Tescar strode in, and gave him a quick nod of welcome. Tethdor Halkutar stood on the king’s left. He had removed his helm and cloak, and his indusken cuirass glinted in the soft glow of the candle-wheel overhead. Danuran, Kazneran and another general of the Tyth’Kadarshi waited with rigid shoulders behind him, and a tall, lean-faced man with a long, tapering beard leaned on a white staff at the king’s right. A robe of brown, embroidered down the front with crimson, fell to his toes, out of which poked the tips of his felt boots. Ordril Mattilon, close friend to the king and the Grand Chancellor of Amateuth, gave Tescar a grave, withering smile of greeting.  
“Ordril was just informing me of the latest news from the royal city.” Dyanro commenced, clearing his throat hoarsely. “It seems that Aradomoria is pressing hard against us in the ambassadorial council, pushing for us to open trade routes with their merchants.”  
“Just a ruse, of course.” Ordril interrupted in his nasal tones. “We know they really want trade routes so they more easily lead raids into our lands and pursue their abominable trade of slavery.”  
“Yes,” the king nodded with a frown at his chancellor. “But our greatest threat right now is on the Warfront; Ordril has received word from the War Marshal that the Darh’meir drazil are once again assaulting with vast numbers.”  
Tescar glanced up. “He fears another Dawnless War?”  
Ordril nodded sagely. “Indeed, and in these dark times, I sincerely hope things do not go that way.”  
“Why not?” the high-pitched voice of Princess Lithandre broke in suddenly with keen disappointment at the Chancellor’s words. She had been slouching in the shadows by the far window, and escaped Tescar’s first glance when he’d come in. Her dark eyes flashed arrogantly as Ordril turned to her with a frown.   
“The Knights of the Sacred Flame could easily wipe the Darh’meir back, and if they failed, the Alliance of Crowns demands that the other kingdoms lend aid in whatever form is needed.” She pointed out with a challenging glare.  
Ordril nodded, “Yes my lady, that is correct.” He replied politely. “Which is exactly why we do not wish for such a thing to happen, especially not now.” He fixed a stern gaze on her. “You have never seen a Dawnless War, child, and by the Maker’s grace, I hope and pray you never do.”  
Dyanro cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Lithandre my dear, Amateuth is in no condition to have a war in our heartland when Bladerelna threatens to march against us.”  
“High King Vorzil is going to war with us?” Lithandre asked, her eyes wide like a doe’s with tingling excitement.  
Tescar brought his stern eyes to bear on her. “War is not a pretty thing, your Highness.” He rebuked. “You should not wish for it to come to this land, or any other.”  
The princess scowled darkly at him. She had never liked Tescar, he was always trying to rein in her arrogance and ambition, like he was her father or something. And right now she found herself resenting him even more. She turned to the king with a proud toss of her head, “Father, why haven’t you sent your armies into Aradomoria? Attacking you in our own lands is breach of the Alliance, and grounds enough for war, is it not?”  
Dyanro hesitated in his answer. “It is.” He admitted slowly, almost reluctantly. “But I have no wish to send my knights to their death on foreign soil when there are alternatives.”  
“Alternatives?!” Lithandre burst out. “What other right choice do you have? And people die all the time, what does it matter if it’s here or there?”  
A gasp of shock rippled through the chamber, and Dyanro looked lost for words and embarrassed. Tescar broke in, his voice hard with stern reproach. “What does it matter? They are your people! If you send men and women to die in another land in a war you started and turn a blind eye to their deaths and a deaf ear to the cries of their kin, you can expect to die with a dagger in your back for blatant neglect of your duties as queen.”  
Lithandre recoiled from his sharp reproof, but then drew herself up with a proud look on her face. “If I am queen, than the people are mine to use as I see fit.” She retorted angrily.   
“Such an attitude is careless and certainly not fitting of one who is heir.” Tescar replied calmly, though his eyes burned with frustration.  
“Lady Lithandre, General Tescar, of your honour,” Tethdor Halkutar’s commanding voice broke in, bringing the heated debate to a sudden close. He turned to the Amateuthian king, “Perhaps the princess should be excused from this council, seeing her views are slightly…narrow.” He suggested carefully.  
King Dyanro sighed inwardly, but nodded. “Lithandre, leave us please.” He decided.  
She shot a scathing glare at Tescar as she flung herself past him, her chin in the air. The door slammed behind her, and a vase slipped from a nearby shelf and plummeted to the floor, shattering into a thousand jagged shards across the marble floor. Silence fell heavily over the room. Ordril leaned on his staff and passed a hand over his eyes, as to wipe away the unpleasant memory from his mind. Tescar flicked an eye towards the broken vessel.  
“That is what Amateuth will look like under her reign, my Liege, if she continues to be so stubborn.” He observed grimly.  
“I agree with Tescar, Dyanro.” Halkutar put in gravely, shaking his head. “She is far from being ready for the throne.”  
The king sighed lamely, “She is still a child.” He tried to excuse her, resenting and yet secretly admitting the stinging truth in Tescar’s words. “She will grow wiser in time.”  
“Her attitude is not one I would wish for any daughter of mine to ever have.” Tescar replied without lessening the stern edge in his tone or the hard look in his eyes. “If she is not taught now, she will never learn until it is too late.”  
Dyanro sighed again, “She can be stubborn, but she is a gifted girl when it comes to diplomacy and trade. Her shrewdness has been a boon to us on many occasions.” He tried to brush away the feeling of his own neglect in regard to his daughter’s upbringing.  
General Tescar shook his head, arms crossed over his chest. He met the king’s eyes squarely. “A merchant is no use to knights who lie dying on the field of war.”


	5. Chapter 5

Lithandre sulked in her room.  
She paid no heed to the luxury around her; the silken curtains, the polished woodwork of her armoire and cabinets, or the soft animal pelts that covered the stone floor. Sprawled across her bed with her arms hugging her torso, she stuck her lower lip out at the ceiling. Her eyes stormy and unwilling, she reflected darkly on her father’s general.  
He’s just trying to run my life for me! I’m the princess – the heir to the throne, and he shows me no more respect than as if I was still a child of six winters! How can my father tolerate his over-bearing ways? As soon as I am queen, he’ll find out quick I won’t be bending to lick his boots like my father does.  
A quiet knock broke her reverie, and she sat up on one elbow sullenly. Glancing towards the door, she forced an artificial smile. “Come,” she called lazily.  
The door swung inwards, and a female bodyguard stepped in, executing a low, somewhat stiff, bow. The ordron at her back swung dangerously close to the woodwork, and Lithandre bit back a shriek as it scraped the edge of the doorframe.  
“Watch what you’re doing!” she shouted, springing from her bed. “You’re going to break something with that monstrosity!”  
The guard straightened up and glanced behind her with a puzzled air. “I…apologies, your Highness.” She turned back with uncertainty in her voice.  
Lithandre sighed and gave a tiresome wave of her hand. “Ah never mind, it’s not like you would know the value of that architecture.” She sat back on her bed and smoothed the skirts of her satin gown with one hand daintily. “Now what did you want?” she asked in a voice of utter boredom.  
“The king sent me to inquire after your needs.” The guard answered respectfully.  
“My needs?” Lithandre frowned. “I have servants of my own, do I not? They are enough trouble as it is without another.” She eyed the guard suspiciously through slitted eyes. “Is that all the king said?”  
The guard shook her head. “Ha has ordered me to remain by your side until such time as he sees fit to relieve me of this honour.” There was something about the guard’s tone that told the princess she had spoken the last words in veiled sarcasm, and she felt contempt rising inside her.  
Ridiculous! She flopped back on her bed, feeling the urge to run down and demand what was going on. But she thought better of it; the king was probably still in council, which meant Tescar would be there too. Of all her father’s knights, she felt she could face any of them but Tescar right now. She lay on her bed, brooding over her fate in silent scorn.  
Ever since she had come of age last year at sixteen winters, she had expected to be treated almost like she was already queen. But no, she felt the restrictions would choke out her life sooner rather than later. The king left her to herself, but there were always others, like that despicable Ordril or that insufferable general Tescar, who tried to constantly lecture her on the principle that queens were not free to do as they wanted.   
Quickly growing bored, she sat up and squinted down the length of her dress. It fit snugly around her torso, and fanned out at her waist in folds that were draped over much of her bed. She reminded herself to visit the royal tailors once she was back in Adrathsil and order new dresses for the coming winter. Having dismissed her maids for the night several hours ago, Lithandre cast a uninterested glance at her bodyguard for lack of anything else to do.  
She was not particularly tall, or slim either; her waist was a good deal thicker than the princess’, and her shoulders were fuller and broader, bearing a alert poise that was visible throughout her entire figure as she stood. Lithandre couldn’t see her facial features because of the full helm she wore, but guessed that bodyguards weren’t that much to look at anyway. She had seen the scars on Tescar’s face on numerous occasions, and couldn’t believe that his wife actually seemed proud of every single one of them.  
She tilted her head. “What is your name?”  
The guard glanced at her in surprise, and for a moment did not speak. “Rinara Moonbreeze, your Highness.”  
“That is not an Amateuthian name, and you speak Blaideish fluently.” Lithandre replied keenly. “Amateuth is not your native realm is it?”  
“I am Blaideish by blood.” Rinara answered slowly, unsure whether she should be indulging in this conversation, or maybe it was shame of what her kingdom had done in the recent past.  
Lithandre looked surprised. “What brought you to Amateuth then? Bladerelna is a beautiful place from what I hear of it, though her people certainly have turned out to be of a streak like the Aradomorians.”  
Rinara winced, hurt by the girl’s inconsiderate and thoughtless comment. She turned away. “War. My father served as a Knight of the Sacred Flame on the Warfront, and I followed in his footsteps. I was there for several years before coming into the service of King Dyanro.”  
Lithandre smiled almost wistfully. “Just like that? You left your father to serve the king? Where is he now?”  
The guard’s shoulders sagged momentarily, and she looked down. “He…he is with the Maker now.”  
Faint sympathy entered Lithandre’s heart, but it was fleeting. With one hand, she smoothed her sun-yellow skirts absently. “Many knights die on the Warfront, child, and no doubt we mourn them all for a time.” She said this in what was meant to be a motherly tone, but Rinara glared at her, and Lithandre saw through her visor that her eyes burned with a fierce, unbroken regret. Then she fell silent, and would not speak to the princess again, or even glance in her direction.

Along the winding road that snaked up to the walls of Wolf’s Bastion plodded the shape of a lean-boned horse. The twin moons had risen, and their light fell in receding shadows down the beast’s dusty flanks and shoulders. His rider, swathed in a cloak and holding a staff in one hand, sat stooped in the saddle. His head was concealed in a hooded cowl, and a full white beard spilled down his chest, gleaming in the shifting moonlight. The hoof-falls of his mount echoed up the narrow path, coming to a halt before the high, fast-barred gates.  
With a creaky groan, the rider leaned from his saddle and banged on the gate with his staff. “Ho there! A traveller seeking lodging!”  
The dark shapes of guards appeared on the wall above the gate, and a stentorian voice called out in the damp night air. “Who goes there?”  
“Merely a poor benighted traveller seeking shelter for the night.” Came the shrivelled reply as the rider settled back into the saddle with a painful sigh.  
There was a moment’s pause as the soldiers conversed among themselves and sent for the captain. The old man chuckled as he listened from below. “These old bones aren’t used to long hours in such a cramped position, lads. I fear I may fall from the saddle if you don’t open up soon, and King Dyanro will be displeased I’m sure, to find me dead at his gates at dawnsun.”  
“Gallandrin?” a new voice called out in recognition.  
“Ah, Captain Urlfurik.” The seer’s tone changed from amused weariness to friendly acknowledgment. “Might you open these gates before you have to carry me inside?”  
The captain laughed. “Open them, boys. The king is expecting this traveller on a matter of great importance.”  
The guards sprang down the steps and heaved aside the heavy iron bars. Gallandrin rode in through the gates, and felt the ground shudder as they were pushed shut once more after him. Urlfurik came running down the wall steps, and caught the horse bridle as the old seer dismounted clumsily.  
“I am not used to such beasts.” He puffed as he adjusted his robes and brushed dust from his wide sleeves. “Is the king here?”  
“Yes sire,” Urlfurik nodded, handing the reins to one of his men. “He and the Tethdor arrived in the hours of highsun. They have been waiting for your arrival since supper.”  
“Oh?” Gallandrin chuckled, “Well, I should not keep them waiting any longer, should I?”  
The captain waved a hand toward the citadel, “I’ll show you to the council chamber, sire.” He offered.  
“Yes, I think you should.” The seer nodded. “It has been a long time since I was here, and I may not remember the way as clearly as I once did.”  
“Your Majesty, Gallandrin has arrived!” Urlfurik announced as he ushered the seer into the dimly-lit council hall, where the king and his close friends, alongside the Tethdor, conversed in low, anxious tones.  
King Dyanro looked up with relief flooding his eyes, and came forward with open arms to grasp the seer by his shoulders. Ordril’s long, thin beard bobbed as he nodded his head in welcome, while Tescar remained stiff and formal by his king’s side. The Tethdor bowed in Tethdorian fashion, arms crossed over his chest and head lowered in respect, and his attending Tyth’Kadarshi did likewise in honour of the aged Binder. Kisaye smiled from where she leaned against the side of the hearth, yet there were traces of anxiety lurking in the depths of her cyan eyes.  
“Gallandrin! After all these long years, you return to us.” Dyanro embraced him warmly. “Where have you been? Fifty-two years have gone by since I last eyes on you, and I was not yet king then.”  
“I have had a long and dark journey.” The seer replied as he sank into a chair and gratefully accepted the cup of wine Ordril offered him. “Many things are stirring abroad in SwordSoul, and few are good. Alas for the darkness that has taken Bladerelna! In these times, we need her now more than ever.”  
“Has the time come then?” Kisaye broke in with concern edging her voice. She gazed at the seer anxiously, eagerly. “Has Vorzil found the heirs of Highmourn after so long?”  
Gallandrin sighed heavily as if a great burden lay on him, and glanced at the king. “Yes, I fear it is so.” He stared into the flames dancing in the hearth and was silent. Dyanro and Ordril watched him with strained expressions, Halkutar frowned in thought, and Tescar went to stand by Kisaye.  
The Binder sat motionless, his thoughts far away and absent. He spoke suddenly, in a low, almost inaudible, voice. “Not many days ago, I received word from Eshura, a member of my order and the keeper of the second heir…and an old friend. It was only brief, but she spoke of Blaideish soldiers in Aradomoria, searching for the second child, burning and killing all in their path. Unfortunately, it seems she had no knowledge of the whereabouts of her ward, and has not told her of her lineage.”  
“Aradomoria?” a startled gasp ran through the room. Dyanro could not hide his astonishment. “You hid her there of all places?”  
Gallandrin shook his head. “No, she was found there, and thus kept there. Yes,” he nodded at the Amateuthian king knowingly. “I am aware of the turmoil in that miserable realm; Ostor struggles to hold power against his ever-bickering nobles, and now he has another problem. Word has reached me of this newly-formed faction of former slaves called the Oath, who have banded together to overthrow the tyrannical cycle Aradomoria has groaned under for many years.”  
Ordril cracked a derisive laugh. “An ambitious vision, but we have seen the fate of those who tried the same thing in the past.”  
Gallandrin nodded thoughtfully, but whether it was in agreement with the Chancellor or in muse of something else was not discernible. He looked up, “I trust you, Dyanro, have done your duty and prepared your ward for this moment. Does the Princess Lithandre know of her true lineage and of the throne in Bladerelna?”  
“She knows,” Dyanro answered uncomfortably, “But whether she desires it is another matter.”  
“Oh?” the old seer raised an eyebrow.  
“That girl is not ready for any throne, let alone the throne of her ancestors.” Tescar’s voice shredded the short silence that followed like thorns tear cloth. His eyes were fixed on the king. “She knows nothing of the responsibilities that come with being queen, nor does she care for those who would be under her.”  
Dyanro cleared his throat uneasily. “It is true that Lithandre knows little of the duties of the crown” he admitted reluctantly. “But she is a gifted girl and I have no doubt she will make a fine queen in time.”  
“Indeed?” Gallandrin inquired, a queer smile playing at the corners of his lips. He noted the doubtful gleam in Tescar’s eyes. “I should like to look upon her, my friend. It has been many years since I have seen one from the noble house of Highmourn; I should feel an age younger were I to look on one now.” He chuckled and shifted in his seat, leaning his staff against the wall and taking several short sips of his drink.  
“Certainly,” the king nodded, and motioned to Captain Urlfurik, who lingered near the door. “Send for the princess.”  
Urlfurik bowed and slipped out. After a long pause, during which time Ordril kicked another log into the flames and drank two goblets of dark, rich Blacksummer wine, the doors reopened. Urlfurik entered first, followed by a royal bodyguard and a sullen-faced Lithandre.  
“Ah my dear child,” Dyanro gave her a fond smile. “I trust I have disturbed you at this late hour?”  
Lithandre frowned peevishly, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder. “I was resting.” She pointed out bluntly. “Why was I dragged out of bed anyway?”  
The king cleared his throat. “We have an important guest here, and he wished greatly to see you.”  
She turned to where he indicated, and stared dumbly at Gallandrin for several minutes. “Who is that beggar?” she blurted out in disgust. “He looks like he’s spent his life in a stables!”  
Kisaye’s hand flew to her throat at the princess’s blatant disrespect, and Ordril choked on his third helping of wine. Urlfurik took a step back, stunned, while the Tethdorians exchanged silent glances of disapproval. Dyanro seemed lost for words.   
“Hold your tongue, girl!” Tescar cut in sharply.  
Lithandre turned crimson, and her eyes flashed at the general. “I am heir to the throne, I can speak how I please!”  
“I would strike you, were the king not here.” Tescar retorted sternly, his eyes glinting like embers in the hearthlight.  
The princess was about to reply with her fullest arrogance, when Gallandrin suddenly sprang up. Looking unnaturally tall and fierce in the fire’s glow, he glared at Lithandre from beneath his bushy eyebrows. “Enough of this!” his voice thundered across the hall with enough force to mimic a body of knights in full gallop. Lithandre, you carry less wisdom then the worst of your sires, and it speaks ill of you. Sit now, and listen to the words of one who has walked the realms of SwordSoul since the days of High King Escavlor I.”  
The seer resumed his seat with a long-drawn sigh, and waved a hand to Tescar. “Please, of your honour, leave this to me.”  
The general nodded, and leaned back against the pillar behind him. Kisaye slipped an arm around his waist and fixed her eyes on the old man’s keen, sorrowful expression.


	6. Chapter 6

Gallandrin rubbed his hands over his knees. “I have seen and heard many dark things as I journeyed here. Something stirs; something darker and more dangerous than the power-lusts of Vorzil and Ostor. The descendant of Sateinak is not alone in his search for the heirs.”  
“It is said in the writings of the oldest of the Binders, that ‘when Bladerelna’s throne is held by one who bears the name and not the blood, and the hidden bearers of the crown emerge from the shadows, that SwordSoul will face a peril not seen since the ancient realm’.” He glanced at the others. “I now know what peril it speaks of; the Witch of the Ashen Wastes, a close follower and disciple of Mordre.”  
A deadly silence descended over the hall as he spoke that grim, forgotten name. The Tethdorians scowled in bitter memory, and no one spoke, not even Lithandre. The flames in the hearth sputtered and almost died down, while the torches on the walls wavered as if a chill wind had passed through the hall. Dread and fear hung heavy in the air.  
The old seer roused himself, turning to Dyanro. “I have more news; the Dark Scythe are on the move, though I do not know how they intend to strike. The thoughts of the Black Lady are difficult even for me to read. I have heard rumours that Vorzil is trying to contact them, and may have already. Word has reached me they have entered Aradomoria in search of the second heir, and it is possible they will come to Amateuth in search of the first. You must act, your Majesty; Lithandre must be sent away in search of her sister.”  
“I cannot send her away with so many perils threatening her life.” Dyanro protested. “She is safer where I can protect her.”  
“If I am the eldest, why should I care about this sister anyway?” Lithandre shrugged indifferently. “I’ll be getting the throne, not her.”  
With a warning look in Tescar’s direction, Gallandrin frowned upon the girl. “We need both heirs should something befall one or the other, and her life is in danger same as yours. Her safety should be your concern.”  
“And,” he added with a quick glance at the king again. “Lithandre will be safer in the wilds, on the move, so it will make tracking her difficult. And since the heirs carry the same blood as twins, only Lithandre will be able to know who the other is, for I have never seen her.”  
Ordril saw the king hesitate, and that Lithandre was about to open her mouth to bawl something; he quickly moved in. “My lord, the seer speaks in truth. Lithandre will be safer in the wilds, and protected by companions you trust with your own life. With war threatening our borders, it seems providential that she must be sent away in search of her sister.” He set his goblet down on the sideboard, and turned to the Binder. “Do you know anything of the second child that might assist in the search?”  
“Only that she is in Aradomoria, in a secluded village to the south. Her features are an exact mirror of Lithandre’s, a rare trait yet one that is always visible in twins born of one who was a twin herself.” Gallandrin paused, “Sadly, Eshura told me very little of her, save that she was not as I thought…and her name, I know her name.”  
Dyanro stirred, waiting for him to go on. Ordril quirked an eyebrow. “Yes?”  
“Dream,” Gallandrin said in a faraway, empty tone. “Eshura named her Dream; a living memory of what is past and kept hidden. She knows nothing of who she is, and where she wanders now with her keeper slain I do not know. Which is why we must act now, your Majesty, before it is too late.”  
The hall fell silent. Lithandre sat speechless, an unreadable expression on her fair, but proud features. Tescar studied her face, and saw only a desire for power burning in them; there was no real urge to find her sister, no loyalty to find the lost heir that shared her blood and lineage and was in peril just as she was. He shook his head gravely, and felt Kisaye’s arm around him tighten.

Silver daggers of moonlight knifed through the dense foliage of the trees, dividing the shafts of shadows. The crag that overlooked Wolf’s Bastion from the west lay hostile and jagged in the cold glare of the nightly stars. Something moved beneath the trees, stealthy shapes that moved with the silent purpose of predators, flitting from shadow to shadow like breaths of wind not felt. At the peak of the crag they halted, crouching low behind a rocky outcrop as they gazed at the fortress sprawled below.  
One stepped to the very edge, bold and defiant. The night breeze swept his cloak from his shoulders, and the silver-inlaid hilts of twin sakruux gleamed darkly at his back. From the depths of his masked hood, sinister yellow eyes gazed down at the keep with an empty, passive indifference. The clawed tipped of his gauntlets clenched by his sides as he surveyed the walls and marked the sentries. He slightly turned his head, and gave a quick nod to his waiting companions still lurking in the gloom behind him.  
Coming forwards, they swung down the sides of the crag and climbed swiftly down with remarkable ease and agility. Dropping to the ground below, they surged forward in a fan-like formation, keeping low. They halted several lance-lengths from the castle walls, their sable attire blending them in with their dark surroundings.  
Their leader waited till the sentry on the wall had passed, then raised and aimed his right arm at the wall. There was a soft click of releasing triggers, and a hooked line shot from underneath his wrist, latching around one of the bulwarks and going taut. He snuck forward, climbing the wall silently using the rough, uneven stones for holds as he made his up. Near the top, he paused and flattened his body against the wall as approaching footsteps warned of the sentry’s return. He waited till he had passed, then neatly flipped over the wall. Taking a long stride forward, he drew a dagger from a sheath at his left arm. Catching the man around the throat, he swiftly stabbed him in the front from behind with one fluid motion.  
He felt the guard’s body contort, than go limp. Jerking out his blade, he dumped the corpse over the wall into a clump of bushes and signalled to his group. He sank down to a crouch as they scaled the wall in their turn, watching the other sentries in case they noticed something was amiss. But they wouldn’t, he told himself, no one saw the Dark Scythe till they struck, and by then it was too late.  
Wolf’s Bastion had been infiltrated. The small group dropped from the wall the courtyard below, and hugging the shadows, made their stealthy way to the side entrance used by the castle servants. It was empty at this late hour; a few torches flickered on the wall, and the infiltrators had no difficulty finding large quantities of pitch and oil.  
The leader dropped a torch onto the first barrel of pitch, and watched as the flames licked hungrily at the sticky lid. “Find the Highmourn heir.” He ordered in quiet, sinister tones, flinging one arm towards the door that led deeper into the citadel. “Secure her at all costs.”  
The others nodded and one by one slipped through the door. The leader remained, watching the flames as they mounted higher, fuelled by the pitch. They roared and crackled, and for a brief minute the assassin was transported back to his childhood home; where the same flames had torn him away from everything he had known and loved. A bitter gleam entered his eyes as he shook the memory off, and strode resolutely towards the door. “Their time will come,” he muttered under his breath, “the Black Lady may command me to spare this Blaideish, but there are others to take the place of her blood.”

Lithandre felt an urgent shaking at her shoulder, and she bolted upright in bed with a startled cry. Rinara stood at her side, holding a flaming torch in one hand. She heard a dim crash in the distance, and felt a slight shudder run through the keep. “What’s happening?” she demanded.  
“Your Highness, you must get up immediately.” Rinara repeated in stiff staccato. “The keep is under attack, and the western wing is in flames.”  
The princess leapt out of bed. “What? Why? Who would dare, is it the Aradomorians?” she spluttered hysterically, throwing a fur-lined mantle over her shoulders. “Where is my father?”  
“Come, follow me.” The guard replied shortly, ignoring her stream of questions. She stepped into the dimly-lit hall where a few braziers still burned by the walls. At the corner she handed Lithandre the torch as she swung her ordron from her back. “Hold this, don’t let it go out.” She ordered without ceremony.  
Lithandre snorted at such a menial task, and resented the informal way in which Rinara treated her. But something told her this was no time for her royal airs, and she followed her warden morosely; the chilly halls making her wish for the warmth of her blankets. Suddenly Rinara thrust her back, and the cold grate of steel against steel sent eerie shivers down Lithandre’s back.  
She looked up, and saw Rinara had crossed blades with a dark-clad stranger who had sprung from the shadows. The cold, burning light of his eyes gleaming through the eye-slits of his steel mask seemed to burn into her very mind, and she shrank away with a scream that echoed through the empty halls with resounding shrillness.  
Rinara disengaged, and quickly stepped up; the one blade of her ordron slashing aside his daggers, then she brought the rear blade around to run him through the chest. He sank to the floor, whispering words neither of them could understand. “Come,” Rinara jerked her head towards Lithandre, wrenching her weapon out and splashing blood across the walls and floor. The princess cringed and went pale.  
In the main hall, King Dyanro and the chief knights of his guard were assembled with the Tethdorians. The king looked up in relief as Rinara escorted the princess in, and took his foster daughter in his arms. “You’re safe, thank the Maker.” He exclaimed with a grateful nod at the guard, who bowed.  
Ordril tapped his staff on the floor impatiently. “The Dark Scythe, here! So soon too; has Vorzil gone mad, to penetrate this deep into Amateuth? Wolf’s Bastion will be their grave.” He declared with injured pride of office and dignity.  
The Tethdor ran an eye along the edge of his blade, “The mind of the Dark Lady is hard to read, and her purpose too deep to fathom. We do not know whether Vorzil is behind this attack or not.”  
Gallandrin nodded, though he looked weary from much thought. “We should be better focused on how they knew where to look.”  
General Tescar swung his blade reflectively, “The Dark Scythe is the most feared and ancient order of assassins in SwordSoul, Chancellor. They seldom move unless they are sure of their prey – don’t underestimate them.” He cautioned in mild tones.  
“They must be desperate indeed than,” the king replied with spirit. “No harm will come to Lithandre within these walls.”  
No sooner had the words left his lips then the doors to the main hall were flung open, and a group of the dark-clad strangers strode in, fanning out as they advanced in the hall. The light of the hearth at the back of the room cast cruel shadows of crimson across the smooth obsidian surfaces of their steel masks, and Lithandre shuddered. She felt vulnerable and open in the presence of these intruders; and the feeling made her want to scream, to run away and hide someplace where they could not see her.  
Tescar placed himself infront of the king, his gaze clashing with the unseen glares of the warriors. “Death takes those who threaten the lord of this realm and those near to him. I warn you to not take a step further, else it find you.”  
The Scythe leader held up one hand, and his companions halted, their weapons lowered but poised at their sides. He glared at Tescar, but his gaze shot past him and rested on the trembling form of Lithandre beyond, and he knew in one glance she was the one ordered for by the Black Lady. He levelled one sakruux in her direction.  
“Give up the Highmourn heir; her life is sent for by the Black Lady.” He ordered in sinisterly deep tones, his eyes narrowing to mere slits behind his mask. “Or you will all die.”  
The Tethdor stepped up to stand beside Tescar. “You will have to wade steel and blood to break past us, Dark Scythe, else you will not touch her.” He threw the challenge fearlessly across the hall.  
The assassin flexed his shoulders, falling into an offensive stance. “You have been warned, I must obey the bidding of my mistress.” He nodded to his companions. “Embrace your death, Amateuthians, or grant us the honour for the Black Lady.” He flung one hand forward, and a hail of thin steel shards flew towards the knights. Some hit pillars and ricocheted back, while others found marks among the knights.  
General Tescar and Tethdor Halkutar launched themselves at the assassins with the remaining knights at their backs. Ordril darted behind a pillar and had the presence of mind to grab Lithandre, who stood frozen on the spot in fear, to safety as well. The king’s hand fell to his swordhilt, but Gallandrin motioned him to be still, and he could only watch helplessly as his men fought in the middle of the hall. There was a strange look in the old seer’s eyes, a haggard and weary glance of long ago that made him look far older and more spent than he really was. He sank into a chair, breathing hard and leaning on his staff, seeming to be oblivious to the conflict that raged before his downcast eyes.  
The main hall rang again and again with the clash of steel and the clink of armour. Tescar and the Dark Scythe leader fought it out in the very center, while their respective followers exchanged blows around them. Ordril, with Lithandre cowering behind him and whimpering, stayed well out of sight. King Dyanro watched with helpless desperation, fingering his swordhilt impatiently.  
Suddenly Gallandrin rose from his chair and raised his staff, speaking words under his breath in a forgotten tongue. Fingers of light gathered in his right hand, spreading into a long shaft of flickering flame that wavered weakly. It grew, waxing brighter until it blazed forth as a living shard of pure, undying light in the seer’s hand. With surprising ease, he hurled it forwards.  
Blinding light illuminated the hall as the spear of burning light struck the midst of the conflict and threw everyone to the ground. Shafts of flame leapt from the light and seared into the assassins, the burning flames finding them no matter where they dodged. The leader saw his chance and lunged forward; Gallandrin saw him coming and threw a spear of light straight at him with astonishing speed. It pierced his right shoulder, burning into his body, and though he was not thrown back, he staggered and fell to his knees.  
Though the chilling, empty glare of his eyes was hidden by his mask, he raised his head and threw a dark, yet almost grateful look, at the seer. Crimson trickles of blood dripped from his shoulder down his arm and stained the marble floor a deep red. He sank lower, feeling his life ebbing from him with every drop he saw fall. It ran down between his fingers, sleeking the hilt of the sakruux he still firmly grasped.  
“So mote it be, Amateuthians, so mote it be.” He coughed out the words with surprising calmness in his deep voice. “My death brings honour to the Dark Scythe. I have…I have fulfilled my oath and…answered…the call of the Black Lady…” Beneath his mask, his lips curled in a fleeting smile, broken only by contortions of pain.  
Several knights closed in around him, blades lowered. “Wait,” Gallandrin signed them to step back.  
“Wait?” Lithandre echoed in disbelief, recovering from her fear. “He tried to kill me! He should die for that!”  
The dying assassin snorted, and raising his head with difficulty, fixed his failing eyes on the princess, who glared at his with a triumphant smirk. He shook his head, “You…are just like the others…the flames that took my life…will take yours’…”  
“Highness, stay out of this.” Gallandrin reproved her.  
“Go ahead, kill me.” The assassin gave up his last strength and sank to the floor. “I have…nothing left.”  
“No wait, stay back.” The seer repeated with a strange urgency.  
But it was too late. The knights were violently thrown back as a storm of wind encircled the dying assassin, and swallowed up the warmth of the hall, leaving it chill and frozen as the peaks of the farthest northern mountains. Snow flew about the hall, and the flames of the braziers and the hearth were snuffed out by a sudden draft. Wind howled. The hall was darkened till the people inside could barely make out each other. Ordril sputtered, and Lithandre cowered whimpering.  
Soft blue light formed around the Dark Scythe assassin, shielding him. A female voice; quiet, mournful and yet commanding, spoke from the darkness. “No, this shall not be.”  
“You are strong, Seer of the Grey Wanderings, and powerful in the ways of the Binders, but you will not take this my most faithful servant from my side. The servant of Mordre still searches, and the deaths of my children this night burn in the depths of my soul, but it is not to end. Soon there will be a greater cry; the skies will bleed with an agony that shall fall like blades. Torn and twisted, suffering from wounds no hands can heal, she will falter, fading almost from life itself for a time.”  
“You know of whom I speak…even now she burns in the fires of regret and grief.”  
The voice died away in the wind. The blue light materialized into the ghostly shape of a wolf which crouched before them; raising its dark muzzle it howled in a voice that shook the citadel to its very foundation. The pillars in the hall trembled and some even cracked. The wind and snow vanished in a roar, and a bolt of vivid violet lightning struck the centre of the hall. When the resulting myst and ash cleared away, the King and his companions stood alone, the Dark Scythe had disappeared, and the only traces of battle that remained were the dead knights and the splashes of blood on the marble.  
Commander Kisaye, followed by three knights, ran into the hall. “My lord, the fire has been brought under control.” She reported, hastily scanning the room until her eyes rested with relief on Tescar. “I have already ordered the debris and rubble to be cleared away and construction to begin at first light. Are you alright?” she inquired, sheathing her twin blades and coming forward.  
“Yes, I believe so, though we have had casualties.” The king replied, rounding his gaze on Gallandrin, who seemed deep in thought again. “Who was that who spoke? Where have the intruders gone? And who did she speak of?” he bombarded the old seer with impatient questions.  
Gallandrin heaved a sigh and weakly sank back into a chair. “It has been a long time since I unleashed my powers, Sire. Of your courtesy, allow me to catch my breath first.” He gave a dry cough. “Ordril, pour me a drink, and one for yourself too; you look quite pale and drawn.” He requested.  
The chancellor readily complied. Gallandrin took a deep, long draught and then lowered his goblet. He fixed his eyes on the king. “The one who spoke is she who the Dark Scythe call the Black Lady; she was once a very powerful Binder under the name of Nyuna’Sohuna. When tragedy tore her life apart, she exiled herself and formed the Dark Scythe; the true purpose of this shadowy group of assassins is still unknown. But she seems to be searching for the heirs as well.” He paused, “She spoke of the second Highmourn child, and I fear we may be too late.”  
“How does she know of her?” Ordril questioned as the king slumped back, digesting what he had heard. “Is she really in peril?”  
“Yes, both presently and to come.” The seer drew in his breath sharply. “I fear greatly for the second heir; her path is darkened from me and I feel her life shudder. We must find her swiftly.”  
For a long minute there was silence as each sat in their own thoughts. Finally Dyanro looked up, “Who should I send with Lithandre?” he asked the seer.  
“My friend, send those with whom you would trust your life with in the darkest of hours.” Gallandrin replied. “Those you trust beyond any doubt.”  
The king frowned, and did not speak for several minutes. Then he turned, “Tescar, will you go with Lithandre and keep her safe for me?”  
The general bowed, “My Liege, I stand at your command. The princess shall not come to harm, I assure you. But,” he added, “I request that Kisaye remain by my side.”  
“Most certainly she should.” Gallandrin replied emphatically when he saw the king hesitate.  
“But now you take my most loyal warriors from me.” Dyanro protested.  
Halkutar stepped forward, “Sire, don’t worry about your own safety, I shall see to it that you are not left defenceless.” He nodded to the seer. “Tethdoria has had much involvement concerning the survival of the Highmourn bloodline and the treachery of Sateinak; its only right she continue to honour her ancient oaths to the Blaideish crown.”  
“What are you suggesting?” Ordril inquired between sips of wine.  
The Tethdor smiled queerly. “Danuran and Kazneran shall remain by the side of the Amateuth king and protect him in Tescar’s absence, and I shall send one of my Tyth’Kadarshi with the princess to ensure her safety.”  
“You would leave two of your generals here?” Dyanro stared at the warlord in amazement. “But-”  
“Indeed, and if you wish to try and make me change my mind…” Halkutar left his sentence open, but Dyanro caught the meaning and smiled ruefully.  
Gallandrin chuckled, “It is hard to go against Tethdorian stubbornness.” He agreed knowingly. “You exploit the traits of your people to your own benefit Halkutar.”  
The Tethdor grinned, “We are a people of our word.”  
“First light at dawnsun tomorrow,” Dyanro repeated as if to himself. He turned to Lithandre, who looked none too pleased with all the arrangements, especially as she realized she’d likely not be getting back to bed anytime soon. The king drew her close, “I’d like a few words with you, my dear.” He led her out the hall, and the other dispersed to arrange for the journey.


	7. Chapter 7

The flames mounted higher, and the intense heat swept across Dream’s brow. She felt as if her body and soul were consumed in the inferno; she couldn’t feel her own limbs, not even her fingers. Her eyes refused to open, and yet it was not darkness she saw; red and crimson flames danced before her and she watched as they veiled the sun and wreathed through all SwordSoul till all the realms burned. Somewhere far back in her mind, she heard a scream, followed by a dim crash, and she fought to regain consciousness.  
Her eyelids flickered. She blinked and stirred uneasily, wincing as burning pain shot up her left arm and shoulder and twisted through the entire right side of her face. She stared at the ceiling, her dark eyes narrowing in bewildered puzzlement and wonder. Where was she?   
Dream thought back; the last thing she remembered was seeing her village on fire. Alarm for her near-mother had consumed her, and she had rushed into the blazing flames without thought for her own safety. She gingerly flexed the fingers of her left hand, and a groan escaped her lips as searing agony knifed up her arm again.  
“Dream?” a familiar voice reached her ears faintly, and she turned her head stiffly towards the sound. Jarlai sat at a table across from her, pen poised over an ornate inkpot. She dropped it back in, and made her way to the bed. Laying a cool hand on her warm, damp brow, she smiled sadly into Dream’s questioning eyes. “Maker’s mercy, you had me worried back there!” she exclaimed in immense relief. “I thought you’d never wake up.”  
“What…?” Dream mumbled through dry lips.  
Jarlai lifted a cup of water and helped her take a few sips. “Hush now, don’t talk just yet.” She cautioned softly. Running to the door, Jarlai wrenched it open with more than her usual vigour. “Davryan! Kyzeinac!” she called urgently.  
Heavy boots stomped from somewhere above and stampeded down the stairs. “What is it?” Davryan’s measured calmness brought restraint to Jarlai’s sudden output of exhilaration.  
“Dream is awake!” the Aradomorian answered with more calculated enthusiasm, motioning towards the bed eagerly.  
“Dream? Awake?”  
Davryan’s grey eyes travelled past Jarlai to the form lying in the bed, and his gaze filled with gratitude and pity. He strode forward, while Kyzeinac contented himself with remaining by the door, arms crossed over his chest. “Dream, thank the Maker you’re still with us.” He laid a consoling hand on her good shoulder. “Are you alright?” he asked in concern, while behind him Jarlai blushed as she remembered she had not even asked that.  
Dream searched his eyes; the grief and self-imposed guilt she saw in them felt disturbing, as if they were not his to carry yet he bore them anyway. “What happened? Where am I?” she asked weakly.  
“Kyzeinac,” Davryan cleared his throat and jerked his chin over his shoulder toward the silent Tethdorian. “passed near Hinn on his way back from our rescue mission. He found you while searching through the embers and ruins for survivors, brought you back here to the Running Crescent. Jarlai hasn’t left your side for eight days.”  
“Eight days?!” Dream echoed in disbelief. “That can’t be…what about my near-mother? Is she alright?”  
Davryan’s eyes were grim like those of a seasoned knight who has seen much death and been forced to turn his back on it all. “I’m…so sorry Dream,” he said huskily, “but your near-mother is dead. No one else survived the fire; Hinn has been razed to the ground, there’s nothing left but blackened earth and a few ashen ruins.”  
Anguish writhed in Dream’s eyes as she realized what the Oath captain had said. She clenched her hands in silent, helpless regret, ignoring the stinging pain this time. “Dead?” she repeated in an empty whisper. “No, no, that…that can’t be. I wasn’t there…to protect her. It was my place, I should have been there!”  
“Dream,” Davryan began carefully, then paused. “I feel the fault and blame is chiefly mine; I shouldn’t have called you out that night. We might have been able to do it without your help.”  
“Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Jarlai put in tenderly, her eyes swimming with sorrow on Dream’s behalf.  
Kyzeinac stirred from his silence, “I am inclined to agree, Captain.” He pointed out in his deep, stern tones. “None of us could have foreseen this turn of events. If Dream had remained, she may have been killed along with the other villagers. The fact that she was not there, and that her life was spared, shows she still has purpose in this life, and no mortal has the place to question that.”  
“Yes, I know,” Davryan sighed, “but I still feel responsible.” He turned back to Dream; she was staring unseeingly at the ceiling, no doubt mentally tearing herself apart for what she saw as her own neglect. “We’ll talk about this later.” He decided, “You need to rest now, give your wounds a chance to heal.”  
She felt the pain in her arm vividly. “What…is the extent of my injuries?” she faltered in quavering anxiety.  
Davryan hesitated and glanced at Jarlai, who looked uncomfortable and shifted her eyes to Kyzeinac; he stared stoically at them both, saying nothing but obviously expecting them to. Jarlai picked at the edge of her sleeve nervously, eyes dragging along the floor. She raised them to Davryan, silently pleading that she not be the one to say what had to be said.  
The Oath captain sighed inwardly and kneeled by the bed, taking Dream’s good hand in his own strong , warm ones. He looked into her eyes, reading the raw agony and regret that burned with passionate flames in them. “Your arm and shoulder will be fine; Jarlai can heal the cuts and burns well enough that there will be little to show for them.” He explained quietly. “But your face…I’m afraid no amount of healing can mend those scars. We can only hope there is no permanent damage to your sight on that side.”  
Dream stared at him in incomprehension for several minutes. She raised her right hand to her face hesitantly, and felt the linen wraps that covered the damaged areas. “Is it really that bad?” she inquired in a frightened whisper.  
“Bad enough.” Davryan replied gravely. “I barely recognized you when Kyzeinac carried you in.”  
Sighing deeply to herself, Dream turned her eyes towards the wall, closing them wearily. It did not matter. She would rest and heal as Davryan told her. Once she was stronger, she would dedicate her life to hunting down those who had reduced her childhood home to dust and ashes, and taken away the only person she had known and loved. Her life from now on would be bent on this one singular purpose.

Telrona looked up from inserting several needle-thin steel shards into the side flaps of her belt. Her luminous green eyes smiled at Dream; her lips were busy holding strips of leather as she geared herself for another trip into the nearest town. Dream gave a stiff nod in return, and lowered herself slowly onto the nearby bench.  
Taking the leather from her mouth and folding it dexterously, the young Vakaric tucked it away into her valise, which was attached to the front of her belt for easy access. “Hey,” she gave the older girl a warm smile. “Feeling better now?”  
“I guess.” Dream replied listlessly, her empty eyes wandering the inn yard absently. She was still thin; thin, wasted and pale from her long days of inaction and healing. She had learned during that time that Davryan and Kyzeinac had made it safely out of the castle and come to the Running Crescent by different routes to avoid pursuit. Ethryder was once more among them, fully recovered from his imprisonment and working alongside the others as they planned and maneuvered. So far, this little remote inn was still a safe haven for the Oath, and word kept coming that other escaped slaves had taken on their cause and were scattered throughout the kingdom.  
The scarred side of her face gave her a harsh, almost forbidding look that was emphasized by the cold emptiness of her dark eyes. She stood up and paced the length of the inn porch restlessly. “I hate this sitting around! I want to do something after all the time I’ve spent in bed.”  
Telrona sorted through her pack silently, than glanced up, an eager light in her eyes. “Why don’t you come with me?” she offered brightly. “I’d love the company and an extra pair of eyes will be useful.”  
Dream hesitated, “Are you sure? What will Davryan and Jarlai say?”  
“Meh, they won’t mind, the exercise will be good for you.” Telrona cocked her head confidently as she sprang up and brushed dust from her tunic skirts.  
“But…” Dream reached up with one hand and gingerly touched her right cheek, wincing a bit as the scars burned; Jarlai had told her they would never fully heal. “What will people say if they see me…like this?”  
Telrona leaned against the railing, her fingers puckering her cheek as she eyed Dream musingly. “Simple, just wear a mask…wait, I’ll be right back.” She darted inside the door, and Dream gazed after her nimble figure with a tense, puzzled expression.  
“Aha!” the Vakaric’s crow of delight and satisfaction floated from a window above, and she re-appeared in the doorway, hugging something close. “Here, I found just what you need.” She exhibited a hood and proceeded to array Dream in it. The hood was deep, and cast shadows over her face, the lower part of which was concealed by a strip of cloth that formed a mask.  
“Perfect,” Telrona stepped back and admired her work smugly. She caught up her pack and slipped it on. “Let’s go.”  
Dream followed her out the inn yard with a backward glance, feeling strangely awkward walking about with her face hidden. They walked along the dusty, narrow road in silence till the towers and rooftops of the town of Banrheig rose into view in the distance.   
“What are you looking for this time?” Dream asked as they strode along, matching each other’s pace.  
Telrona cocked her head, her green eyes flashing in the sunlight. “The innkeeper asked me to get him some sareika blossoms so he can brew his special ale again since his last stock is low. And Jarlai needs more of that smelly herb for her poultices, y’sella petal or something like that. And then there’s the Aradomorian barracks I always look into when I come here.”  
“They just…let you walk around the barracks?” Dream asked in surprise.  
The Vakaric laughed, “Ha, of course not! But it’s easy to pick my way in and snoop around for information that they leave lying here and there.”   
“Where did you learn to do those things?” Dream asked with aroused interest, kicking a stone off the road and turning to look at Telrona.  
The younger girl laughed lightly as she patted the many pouches that adorned her belt, her eyes sparkling with secret pleasure. “When I was a slave, I spent every spare minute I had tinkering with locks and the like. Some of the other slaves would sometimes bring me things to practice on; I learned quickly how to make my own tools.”  
“Did you ever,” Dream paused uncertainly, but the curious glance Telrona gave her invited her to say more, so she plunged on. “Did you ever use your skills against your masters?”  
Without showing the least discomfort, Telrona nodded, her lips curling in a wide grin. “Once my master came home late from a feast and hopelessly drunk; he and his guards passed out soon after. I locked them in the main hall and gathered the slaves in the kitchens, ha, but did we go to bed with full stomachs for a change!” Her eyes glinted with the memory.  
“Is life as a slave to the Aradomorians…is it really that bad?” Dream inquired cautiously.  
The Vakaric nodded soberly. “We are treated as unworthy to walk on the same soil as our masters; even their beasts are treated better than us. If we step out of line even by a little, we’re beaten bloody and the guards gather all the other slaves to watch. I knew a slave once…he dropped his master’s goblet, and was thrown to the hounds. Poor soul,” she reflected quietly, “they tore him to shreds in seconds.”  
Dream’s eyes narrowed, and she felt flames course through her blood. “Small wonder this kingdom is hated so much.” She muttered bitterly.  
Telrona nodded in agreement, “Our misery is their pleasure.” She commented, “But I’m glad I managed to escape, and even more so that I ran into Davryan. I really believe he can change things, that he make this kingdom into one that is respected by the Alliance of Crowns and looked up to like Tethdoria is.” Her eyes glinted with deep respect for her captain and her voice echoed with an inner thrill of admiration.  
They walked on in silence for several minutes, then Telrona glanced at Dream again, curious questioning dancing in her eyes. “Dream, why don’t you join the Oath and become one of us?”  
Taken aback by the unexpected question, Dream halted in mid-stride. She felt the Vakaric’s eyes on her, but avoided her gaze almost guiltily. “I can’t, Telrona, I just can’t.” she whispered, shaking her head.  
“Why not?” the younger girl probed further, searching Dream’s dark, veiled eyes intently. “Do you hate us for what happened to your near-mother?” she asked gently, almost painfully.  
“What? No!” Dream jerked her head up in shock, “Of course not, why would I?” She hastened to assure her. “But I –” she paused, unable to go on and angry with herself for not being able to control her hatred and bitterness better. “Telrona,” she sank to her knees and looked the Vakaric in the eyes, “I hate the Aradomorians, hate them so much it hurts every time I think about them. I’m too caught up in my own bitterness and resentment, and…I’m afraid.”  
Telrona nodded to show she understood the older girl’s struggle. “I know, Dream, I used to feel the same way. I hated them for what they did, to me and to the other slaves. I’m Vakaric, but I know nothing of my people; I don’t even speak like them because I was taken away from them so early in life. But I knew I had to let it all go if I want to help them.”  
Dream shook her head slowly, “I don’t think I can do that.”  
“Why not?” Telrona inquired softly. “What are you afraid of?”  
Dream looked down, “Afraid that my hatred will blind me, that if I join the Oath my desire for revenge will make me do terrible things.” Her voice shook, and her eyes shimmered as the empty void in them began to cave in under the pressure of her locked-away emotions as they rose to the surface.  
Telrona traced the edges of Dream’s cape thoughtfully. “You haven’t spoken to Davryan about this have you?” she mused quietly. “You should Dream, he understands things like this; we were all where you are now.”  
“I keep such things to myself.” Dream answered doubtfully. “I wouldn’t know how to relate to the other members of the Oath how you seem to.”  
“We’re just friends; we’re here for each other…like a family of sorts.” Telrona replied warmly. “And you know we care for you even though you’re not one of us.”  
Dream shook her head as she straightened up, the void hardening over her eyes, and the dark empty look returning. “I don’t feel like I belong anywhere right now.” She saw the searing flames in her mind’s eye again, felt the keen heat against her body, heard the screams of the dying in her ears as if they would deafen her.

The members of the Oath sat in the inn parlour over bowls of rich pheasant stew and platters of bread and cheese. Outside the wind howled around the inn, and the windows shook from the fury of the elements. But inside the hearth flickered warmly and sent its comforting presence around the room, encouraging them to linger over their meal.  
“Several of our scattered members will be arriving here within the next few days.” Davryan announced during a lull in the light-hearted recounting of the day’s events. His lynx-grey eyes, keen and piercing as always, ran over them with a new light kindled in their depths.  
“Really?” Jarlai looked up from scraping the last drops of broth from her bowl with a crust of bread. “How many?”  
“Five,” Davryan replied readily, catching the hint of anxiety in her voice. “Don’t worry Jarlai,” he assured her, “I’ll make it clear to them from the start your loyalty, just as I have done so with everyone here.”  
She smiled in gratitude, “That’s not really why I was asking.” She admitted with slight amusement. “I’m more than willing to prove myself if they have any doubts. I was more wondering how many we could fit in here without drawing attention.”  
“Yes, that’s an important point we have considered.” Ethryder nodded, setting down his empty bowl and reaching for his cup of wine. “Davryan and I have decided its best if we divide the Oath into functioning groups of around fifteen members and have several havens for each band.”  
Kyzeinac grunted in agreement as he dragged his tankard across the table towards himself.  
“So,” Telrona bit into her bread and chewed it briefly before swallowing. “With five more, that will make twelve of us.”  
Davryan turned to Dream, who throughout the entire meal had said nothing and eaten only a few bites. He studied her thin, narrow frame thoughtfully for several minutes, weighing in his mind whether he should ask now or wait longer. He marked her grim, indifferent features and guessed only too well what lay behind her passive expression. “Dream, have you decided yet on what you are going to do?” he asked casually enough.  
Telrona and Jarlai both looked up eagerly, and the Vakaric had to clasp her hands together to keep them from trembling. Dream looked down at her food, most of which was untouched. “I don’t know…I haven’t given it much thought.” She replied stonily.  
G’hornad laughed scornfully and slapped his thigh. “You’ve had several weeks to think about it, girl! When are you going to realize that old woman isn’t coming back to live your life for you?”  
Dream sprang abruptly to her feet, her dark eyes blazing. “Don’t you dare talk about my near-mother like that! She was all I had!” Confused anger and mortification saturated her voice, and she spun on her heels and marched out the parlour.  
The others heard the outer door slam and footsteps cross the porch, than strained silence fell over the inn. Kyzeinac glared at the Dalic, who shrugged it off with a defiant smirk. “Someone had to tell her, Kye. It’s not my fault the rest of you are too tender to break life’s reality to her.”  
Ethryder gave him a pointed look. “The arrogant way you said it, not to mention your complete disregard for someone else’s hurting feelings, was not the way to do it.”  
Telrona’s shoulders sagged and she glanced down at her bowl, her appetite suddenly dampened. Reorren said nothing, but his dark eyes followed Dream’s figure as she had left, and he frowned slightly into the hearth. Davryan heaved a troubled sigh and leaned forward, folding his hands on the table. He looked at Jarlai, “What do I do?” he asked in puzzlement. “I want to help her find her way, but she refuses.”  
Jarlai gave him a forced smile of sympathy. “She needs time, Davryan; time to face the guilt she’s thrown herself into and realize there was nothing she or anyone could have done.”  
“Bitterness and self-inflicted guilt can be dangerous weapons that rob a soul of life and leave only a walking husk, a shadow of a former life.” Kyzeinac reflected gravely, and Ethryder nodded in acquiesce, adding, “She needs to face it now, or it will be too late.”  
“Leave the past where it falls.” Davryan commented. Suddenly he glanced around at them all. “Where was she today? I don’t recall seeing her since dawnsun.”  
Jarlai shrugged in ignorance.  
“Probably sulking.” G’hornad quipped contemptuously.  
“She was with me.” Telrona spoke up quietly. “I invited her to come to town with me.”  
“Telrona!” Jarlai was shocked. “She’s still healing, she’s not strong enough for that yet. Not to mention how dangerous it is to go abroad even for you.”  
Davryan chuckled despite the tense atmosphere that pervaded the room since Dream’s exit. “Jarlai, Telrona is in her element down there. I’m surprised she can drag herself away from all those tempting locks and bolts to come back every time she goes there.” Sobering up, he turned to the Vakaric. “How was she?”  
“I asked her why she didn’t join the Oath.” Telrona admitted. “She said she was afraid, and that she hated the Aradomorians so much it hurt whenever she did.”  
Kyzeinac nodded as if to confirm his own suspicions, and Ethryder looked troubled. “Such a hatred is…disturbing.” He said slowly.   
“Afraid?” Davryan repeated, slowly beginning to understand. “Afraid of what?”  
“That if she joins the Oath, her hatred and desire for revenge will drive her to do terrible things.” The young girl replied. “Davryan, you have to help her.” She pleaded, “I don’t want her to leave, I want her to become one of us, to share our purpose.” Her luminous eyes swam with a secret, haunting fear.  
“No one can make that choice for her, Rona.” Davryan replied with a sad smile. “I sense Dream feels torn in two directions, and she fears to take a step in either way.” He sighed and pushed himself away from the table. “For now we will not mention this to her, we’ll give her time. And G’hornad,” he lowered his eyes at the Dalic, “You must learn to rein in your arrogance and scorn for others. I don’t want to hear you speak to Dream, or anyone here, like that again. You fail to consider the struggles others face; think on that tonight.”  
G’hornad’s eyes flashed, but he nodded morosely at Davryan’s words as the Oath captain and Ethryder passed from the room. Telrona also disappeared somewhere, and Jarlai went over to tend the fire. Reorren remained where he was seated, staring into nothingness.  
The Dalic stood up and kicked his bench back into place with a careless air. As he made for the door, Kyzeinac barred his way. “Do not disrespect the Captain’s orders, Dalic.” He muttered in warning tones, his gleaming yellow eyes searching G’hornad’s face sharply. “You may have gotten away with it as a slave, but here it is different, and I ensure it remains so.” He stalked past him, knocking him back with a slight shove of his shoulder.  
G’hornad sucked in his breath with a scornful twist of his lips, and threw an I-don’t-care look after the lean Tethdorian’s departing figure. He lounged up the stairs, leaving Jarlai and Reorren alone in the parlour. The Aradomorian added another piece of wood to the fire and looked up in mild surprise as Reorren stood up and reached for his bow.  
“Where are you going?” she asked nervously, unable to take her eyes off the weapon as he tested the strength of the string.  
Barely giving her a glance, he strode towards the door, mumbling under his breath, “Need to stretch my legs.”  
“But it’s not safe to wander alone in these parts.” She protested. The silent scout ignored her words and Jarlai heard the door squeak as he left. With a perplexed sigh, she sank back infront of the fire, soaking in its warmth before going on up to bed.


	8. Chapter 8

The leaves quivered as a black-feathered arrow thunked with resounding force into the thick trunk of the beech. The trees groaned and swayed as a brisk wind screamed through the eaves and whipped back the knee-length skirts of Reorren’s leather surcoat. He reached for another dark-shafted arrow from the quiver at his thigh and nocked it to the string, aiming for a target even further than the one he had just struck. His arm drew back, and the strength of the bow pulled the muscles in his arm and shoulder taunt as he paused, aligning his sights with his target. The wind faltered, and in that fleeting moment, he released the arrow.  
Thunk!  
The welcome sound of the steel broadhead striking home brought secret satisfaction to the silent warrior’s cold heart. He lowered his bow, the engravings along the back gleaming dimly in the light of the twin moons. His mind was not on his archery tonight though. His thoughts lingered around the conversation at the supper table, and he reformed in his mind the words of each speaker. He sank on one knee, the glare of his dark eyes piercing the darkness around him with deadly keenness.   
The forrest lay dark and beautiful beneath the star-scattered void of the night sky. A bank of clouds lingered in the distant west, forerunners of an early winter storm. Soft moonlight flickered through the foliage, and outlined the fronds of rare red ferns that grew at the foot of a grand old oak. But Reorren saw none of this; his heart was cold and unresponsive towards the living world around him; he only saw death, only felt a deep, lonely pain, only heard the scream of the wind as it hurtled past him.  
He thought of Dream. He had seen the grim stare in her eyes that spoke of one who had ceased to see life around them as it once was. She was fading; shutting herself away from the warmth of life and sinking into the bitter comfort of her grief and sorrow. He knew well that dark path, and though he clung to it stubbornly as it being all he had, yet he had no desire to see another fall into such misery.  
A lonely howl, mournful and forsaken, tore through the forrest’s silence and rose in dying crescendo to the indifferent skies. Reorren stirred, and his dark eyes snapped to the direction of the sound before the echoes distorted the location. He straightened up, shouldered his bow, and strode through the bushes and young saplings, seeking the source.  
The forlorn cry was repeated, but this time it came weaker, lower, as if despairing to be heard. It was not the sound of an injured creature, or of one on the hunt for prey, but rather of one abandoned; a helpless breathe of life doomed to see the world and pass from it again before a moon had waned.  
Reorren knelt and peered into the gloomy recesses of an overhanging rock that formed a small, low natural shelter. A pair of intense vermeil eyes burned from the shadows with a fierce desperate light, and a viscous growl warned him not to approach. He realized though, despite the show of bravado, that it was indeed rather helpless; a young black foxling.  
He leaned back on his heels, hands resting on his knees he stared back at the burning eyes which never left his crouching form. Though he would never openly admit it, Reorren secretly sympathized with those who had to suffer and drag their way through life with what small shreds of existence were left to them. Memories of his past life as a slave flashed painfully through his mind, and he winced as he self-consciously imagined his former master to be leering over him again, and felt again the stinging lash of the whip against his already bleeding and torn back. Moved by strange, almost ironic pity, Reorren leaned forward and reached into the crevice, scooping up the trembling bundle of fur and fangs.  
The foxling snarled and snapped at his fingers. But as he held it in the cup of his hands close to his chest and whispered soft, soothing sounds to it, the foxling gradually relaxed and closed its muzzle on his thumb contentedly. Reorren smoothed the ruffled fur along its back and played absently with its large, tufted ears, lost in thought.  
Thunder echoed across the sky, and in the distance, a jagged bolt of vivid yellow lightning streaked through the bank of storm clouds. The foxling whimpered, and every hair on its frail body stood up in terror as it rolled its vermeil eyes, rounded in sheer fright, at Reorren pitifully.  
Rain fell in torrents without warning. Reorren opened his surcoat and persuaded the foxling to take shelter in the warmth of his inner tunic. Fastening the buckles back in place, he felt the creature’s leaping heart pounding against his own, and laid one hand over where it was snuggled reassuringly. Drawing his hood deeper over his features, he rose and strode swiftly into the blinding veil of rain.

Kor’Dyran stirred as he imagined hearing someone faintly call his name in the distance, and he blinked his eyes open. The eerie golden slits knifed through the dimly-lit room like keen-edged blades; he remembered this place, the grey walls, the tall arched windows and even the stone bunk he lay on all seemed comfortingly familiar. He was back in Black Mantle, but how? He mulled over his memory, blurred images of him and his select band infiltrating Wolf’s Bastion. He recalled something striking him in the main hall during the fight, and after that he remembered no more.  
He sat up, and winced as dull pain snaked down his shoulder and arm, momentarily numbing his fingers. He glanced around carefully, yes this was his room. But how did he get here? Was this some trick devised by the Amateuthians to break him down and get information from him? Swinging his legs to the floor, he stood up a bit unsteadily as a wave of dizziness rocked his head momentarily.  
Opening the door and stepping into the quiet hall, he almost bumped into the ghostly blue form of a wolf. Light from a nearby brazier glimmered against the silvery armour that ran from his muzzle, down his neck and over his back where it protected his shoulders and flanks. Intelligent cyan-flamed violet eyes glinted at him as the wolf rose to his paws. “My mistress awaits you.” He spoke in a snarl, “Come, follow me.”  
He turned and padded noiselessly down the silent white halls. Kor’Dyran followed without a word, recognizing the Black Lady’s personal wolf companion, Halcyon.   
The giant creature led him into a wide chamber hung in white and silver, where a canal of crystal clear water encircled the entire room and streamed through narrow viaducts to a pool in the centre. A marble fountain in the shape of an armoured woman dominated the middle of the mere, and water ran from the statue’s hands and splashed into the pool amidst the floating lilypads. Grey benches of marbles surrounded the mere, and it was to the foremost of these that the wolf directed his tread.  
“My mistress,” he growled, sinking on his forepaws and lowering his muzzle till his whiskers scraped the floor.  
A tall woman with skin so pale it seemed transparent in the watery light that filtered down from the glass roof high above them, rose to her feet. She was clad in a high collared robe of silver-embroidered blue with an over-cape of pure, gleaming white. Her long moon-silver hair fell below her narrow waist and flickered with inner light. Large, luminous eyes, so white one could not endure to look upon them for long, turned to them, and she folded her thin, delicate hands slowly.  
“Kor’Dyran Blackstorm, my right hand and First of the Scythe.” She greeted him in tones like the gentle murmur of a brook. “You wonder how you come to awaken here? You were mortally injured at Wolf’s Bastion, and I used my powers to bring you back here for healing.”  
The assassin went down on one knee before her, “Mistress, I was ready to die for Black Mantle and bring honour to the Dark Scythe.”  
“I know,” she replied softly. “And thus your devotion has been rewarded with a chance to live for the Scythe instead of following your companions in death.”  
Kor’Dyran’s eyes shadowed as he remembered seeing his friends fall in Wolf’s Bastion. “I regret we were not able to carry out your bidding. I take the blame of failure, my Lady.”  
The Black Lady shook her head as she signed for him to rise. “No, First of the Scythe, the failure is not yours. Gallandrin has seen to it that the first Highmourn child is well protected by his allies, so we will not move against him.”  
“What is to be done?” he inquired.  
She sank back onto the bench, and Halcyon came to lie at her feet, head resting on his forepaws and his burning eyes half-closed in feigned relaxation. “Gallandrin, for all his wisdom, does not see the scheme of the Witch of Mordre’s Taint as clearly as he might think. By trying to bring both heirs together and take them to Bladerelna will only work in her favour. He has one heir, but he is yet to find the other one.”   
“No doubt, he will send the first heir with companions he sees fit to guard her, and have them search for the second child. Vorzil knows of them, and has already sent his men into Aradomoria in search of the second-born heir. The Witch of Mordre knows of the first, and senses the second, and Gallandrin knows of both and has one. We must move quickly if we are to keep the second from them all.”  
Kor’Dyran listened closely, “The Witch…why does she need the heirs?” he asked carefully.  
“The strength of the ancient Flame Reapers runs strongly in the veins of one of the heirs, and she needs that power to fuel her own and cloak the realms of SwordSoul in the chaotic shadows of her dark master. Her influence and power is strong in Bladerelna, which is why we must keep the heirs from that realm at all costs. If we cannot save the first child, maybe we can save the second.” She sighed, and in her ageless features Kor’Dyran read unfathomable and ancient sorrow. “I was not strong enough to kill her then,” she recalled absently, “now the realms must suffer because of my failure.”  
“I stand ready to serve, my Lady.” The assassin replied, knowing of what she spoke. “Where do you wish me to go?”  
“We must find the second-born child.” The Black Lady answered without hesitation. “Gallandrin does not know where she is, only that she is somewhere in Aradomoria, but I know closer of her location. She is in the north of that kingdom, purposeless and in the keeping of the Oath, with whom she will be safe for a time.”  
She clasped her thin hands together at her knees. “Kor’Dyran, you will go to Aradomoria, become one of the Oath, find the child, and watch her. She must join with them, it will further ensure her safety.”  
“Why?” the assassin asked.  
“To become of the Oath, one must renounce their former life and all that they would have had.” The Black Lady replied, “If Dream becomes one of them, she will renounce her claim to the Blaideish throne forever, and nothing Gallandrin can do will revoke that. Dream’s destiny does not lie in the realm of her ancestors, but in Aradomoria; she will be a purging fire that will aid in the cleansing of that realm.”  
Kor’Dyran raised an eyebrow, “Dream…is her name?”  
“Indeed.” The Black Lady answered with a slight dip of her head. “A name that speaks of many things, and yet indirectly in a way only the wise and keen of mind can discern.”  
“It will be done.” The assassin bowed and made to leave.  
The woman laid a restraining hand on his shoulder, “Wait,” her voice halted him in mid-stride, “it is my will that you take Halcyon with you. I will be unable to protect you with my power, so he shall guard you in my place.”  
The giant wolf, who could stand with ease to the shoulders of a Tethdorian warhorse, heaved himself slowly to his paws. “I stand at your side, First of the Scythe, your enemies are mine.” He growled in acknowledgment of the Black Lady’s command.  
“While you search for the second child,” the former Binder went on, blinking her white eyes slowly. “I shall gather the Scythe and we will hinder both Vorzil and the Witch as we can to give you more time.”  
Kor’Dyran nodded, then paused. “And when I have found her?”  
She smiled faintly and held out one delicate arm, a black-stoned amulet forming in the palm of her hand. “Use this to keep in contact with me, but take care you are not seen using it, it will cast suspicion on you.” She pressed it into his hand, and closed his fingers around it. “You will know her by the scar.”  
He bowed, arms crossed over his chest. “As you wish, my Lady, I shall not fail you.”   
“Go, First of the Scythe, find this wandering soul and protect her – for she holds one of the rays of light that will restore the peace of SwordSoul and bring unity back to the Alliance of Crowns.” She laid the palms of her hands on his shoulders and looked into his eyes, which could only endure her gaze for a few seconds before dropping. “Honour for the Scythe.”  
“Honour for the Scythe, in life and death.” He repeated, bowed again, and then took his leave with Halcyon by his side.


	9. Chapter 9

“I heard yesterday in town that the presence of the Oath has been brought to Ostor’s ears.” Telrona reported as she ran a comb through her moon-silver hair and paused to stare out the window musingly.  
“Really?” Jarlai looked up from fastening the straps on her boots. “That’s not good; are you sure it’s safe for you to go into town still?” she inquired, standing up and straightening her tunic front.  
The Vakaric tossed the comb onto her bed and gathered her hair at the back of her neck, securing it with a bronze pin. “I think so.”  
“Hm, you should tell Davryan about that though.” Jarlai smoothed the covers of her bed neatly. “Aren’t the new members supposed to be arriving today?” she asked suddenly.  
Telrona nodded, “Yes, because I heard Ethryder and Davryan discussing the possibilities of us being able to assault a royal caravan with twelve members.”  
Dream stirred from where she was leaning absently by the window, staring outside emptily. “It might…it might be thirteen.” She said in a low voice, almost as if speaking to herself.  
“What did you say?” the other two both glanced up simultaneously, staring at her in surprise.  
She turned around to face them, a strange, unreadable expression on her face. “I said that maybe there will be thirteen soon.” Seeing Telrona’s eager face, she nodded slowly, “I’ve been thinking about what you said that day, Rona, thinking very hard. I’m not sure I could ever forgive myself for not being there, but I know I can let go of my hatred.”  
“Dream,” Jarlai put in softly, sinking onto the edge of her bed. “I know how you feel. I was once there myself…you’ve never heard of how an Aradomorian became one of the Oath, have you?” she looked up with a tense face.  
Dream shook her head, “I have wondered about it though. I guess I just never really cared to actually think about it.” She glanced down, “Although I must confess, from the start I didn’t trust you.”  
“I know,” Jarlai actually smiled, “Davryan didn’t either, but he was willing to give me a chance to prove myself. Telrona was the only one who accepted me straight up.”  
The Vakaric laughed as she bounced to the armoire and shoved the comb back into its place. “I may be only fourteen, but it wasn’t because I was naïve; I do know not all Aradomorians are devious, selfish, murderous bastards. I don’t know, but I just couldn’t see you as being like that, you were…different.”  
“When are you going to tell Davryan?” Jarlai asked.  
Dream frowned, “I don’t know to be honest.” She admitted, “Maybe after the new members get settled in.”  
“Why not right now?” Telrona suggested. “He’s downstairs with Kyzeinac in the parlour; they’re having a late breakfast so they are not really busy.”  
“Well…” Dream hesitated, “alright.” She straightened up and headed for the door, a determined gleam in her eyes. Jarlai and Telrona clattered downstairs after her and all three of them stumbled more than walked into the parlour.   
Davryan raised an eyebrow over his mug as he took a sip. “Ladies, what’s the sudden rush?” he inquired with some humour in his tone. “You’re not here for second helpings are you?” he asked with feigned anxiety.  
“No, we’re here because…” Jarlai began, than stopped. She glanced at Dream and nudged her knowingly.  
Davryan and Kyzeinac both turned to her questioningly, and Dream felt intimidated by their keen glances. Swallowing hard, she stepped forward, “Davryan, I…I’ve made up my mind.” She had to force the words out, and she could hear her heart pounding in her ears.  
He set his mug down, “You’re leaving then?” he suppressed a sigh.  
Dream looked him in the eye, “No, I am not leaving, on the contrary, I have made up my mind to stay as one of the Oath.” She announced with more confidence than she initially felt. “If…if you’ll have me.” She added quietly.  
“If we’ll have you?!” Davryan sprang from his seat and grasped Dream’s hands in his, “Dream, you are more than welcome among us! Isn’t that right, Kyzeinac?” he glanced over his shoulder at the Tethdorian.  
“Indeed, thrice welcome, Dream of the Oath.” Kyzeinac nodded, speaking in a voice that sounded as if he was on the point of utter boredom.  
Ethryder appeared behind Telrona in the doorway, “Pardon the interruption of the ceremony, Captain,” he gave Dream a nod of approval, before going on. “The new members have arrived, shall I show them in?”  
“Where are Reorren and G’hornad?” Davryan inquired, hastily finishing his coffee and brushing crumbs from his surcoat. “They should be here as well.”  
“G’hornad is upstairs.” Telrona piped up. “I’ll go get him.”  
Ethryder paused, “I haven’t seen Reorren since dawnsun; he left for the forrest again with that foxling at his heels.” He drummed his fingers against the woodwork and gave Davryan a questioning look, “Should I send someone for him, or no?”  
“I guess not, he can always meet them later when he comes back.” Davryan decided after a moment of deliberation.  
Telrona skipped back into the parlour, followed by a dark-faced G’hornad. “When I get my hands on that brat and his horrible furball…” he muttered under his breath after glaring searchingly around the room. None of the others seemed to hear, but Kyzeinac had sharp ears, and he gave the Dalic a steely glance.  
Davryan nodded to Ethryder, “Show them in.”  
The former Knight of the Sacred Flame slipped out, and soon came back, followed by five strangers. Ethryder waved them in, and then turned to Davryan. “Meet the new members of our band, Captain. I assure you, that despite outward appearances, every one of them is dedicated to our cause and loyal to you and those who follow you. I’ll let them introduce themselves, and then you can take it from there.” He announced with a tinge of formality in his tone that Dream had not noticed before.  
She turned her attention to the strangers as the first stepped forward somewhat hesitantly, as if unsure about their surroundings. Dream stared in surprise at the female who had come forward, never had she seen hair of such a shade, or eyes of such a deep intensity. The new member bowed fluidly, and straightened up, her midnight amethyst hair falling down her shoulders in rich waves. Her dark vermeil eyes blinked at Davryan as she spoke, and her harsh, rasping voice reminded Dream of steel being sharpened against a grindstone.  
“Kai’Ryna T’sonaa of the Rukaath’r, my lord.”  
“Kai’Ryna is the only one of these members who has not been in slavery so to speak.” Ethryder informed Davryan’s companions as the Rukaath’r glanced at him inquisitively. “She managed to escape the slave caravan before it reached its destination.”  
“She is most welcome among us.” Davryan assured him, extending a smile of welcome to the uneasy Rukaath’r.  
The next to step forward was a male, rather small in height and with a wiry, agile build. He bowed slightly, and Telrona nudged Dream in sudden excitement, “He has eyes like mine!” she whispered with a thrill in her voice. Dream studied him closer, and saw his eyes were indeed large and luminous like Telrona’s, only hers were green while his were a vibrant flame-orange.  
“Ethran’Dalcon Sarthryin vas Huscaarn at your zervice.” He introduced himself with ease. His eyes settled on G’hornad as the Dalic gave a contemptuous snort in his throat. “Duz dat one hav’a problem?” he inquired with a slight rise of one eyebrow.  
“He’s just unused to hearing a Vakaric speak in Blaideish in such a way.” Davryan replied quickly, throwing a warning glance at G’hornad. “No doubt Telrona will make you feel very much welcome here, Ethran’Dalcon.”  
The Vakaric smiled queerly. “Juzt Ethran vill do, de namez ov my people can be tedious vor doze ov ozer landz.” His eyes lit on Telrona, who was staring at him shyly, but with great interest. “Hm, anoder Vakaric here?”  
Telrona nodded, “You remember where you come from?” she breathed in awe and longing.  
Ethran gave her a sad smile. “Yez…I zee you do not, poor child. Tiz a terrible thing to not know vhere one comez vrom. I vill tell you all I remember about Vakaria, and maybe one day, ve vill go dere.” He promised.  
“You will?” Telrona’s eyes shone with anticipation. “I’d like that very much.”  
“Captain Davryan,” the war-hardened voice of a female broke in, and one of the other strangers stepped forward, shoulders rigid from years of battle training and combat. The woman bowed after the fashion of the Knights of the Sacred Flame, and her warm brown eyes were soft and tender despite her commanding bearing.  
“I am Vjelka Whiteheart of Amateuth. For nine years I have served on the Warfront against the Darh’meir drazil, and for two I have suffered beneath the chains of Aradomoria. My blade is at your command; I consider it an honour to help free those who are close kin to my own people.”  
Davryan gripped her out-stretched hand in warrior fashion. “I am honoured to have you among us, Vjelka.” He said simply. “The skill of your Order is above renown.”  
Two others came forward, young and bearing the same close, narrow features of Kai’Ryna. Dream’s scrutinizing gaze ran over their midnight blue hair and the dark amethyst eyes of one, but glancing at the other she paused and her breath caught in her throat. His eyes were a misty, blurred grey, and she could not discern between the two of them except for that one inconsistency.  
“I am Talrosas T’cloak,” the foremost one introduced himself with a stiff bow, “and this is my twin brother, Talrukas.”  
Ethryder caught Davryan’s questioning look, and nodded. “Talrukas is blind, Captain, but I assure you he is as good with a blade as you or I.”  
“A warrior needs his eyes, else he is no warrior.” G’hornad pointed out sarcastically. “I would feel very vulnerable fighting alongside one who can’t see friend from foe.”  
“G’hornad –” Davryan began warningly.  
“Wait,” Talrukas said, turning his sightless eyes towards the Dalic and stepping forward without hesitation. “Would you like me to prove Silvercrow’s words?”  
The Dalic eyed him doubtfully, an expression of utter scorn stamped across his sullen features. “You? Fight me?” he laughed shortly. “I have better things to do than waste my time with a fumbling whelp who can’t see his own hands.”  
Dream glanced at Talrosas, expecting him to resent the insult made against his brother. But the other boy was watching with a confident smile playing at the corners of his lips and an amused look in his eyes.  
“Yes, fight me outside in the yard.” Talrukas agreed. “I’ll show you I am not helpless or clumsy in combat as you think.”  
G’hornad smirked at him, and shot a glance at his brother, “I suppose you don’t care if I teach this arrogant whelp to mind his betters?”  
“Go ahead.” Talrosas shrugged his shoulders casually.  
“Fine then.” The Dalic rolled his shoulders smugly and swaggered out the door with an air of confidence. The others all followed him and assembled in the inn yard to watch. “Okay boy, whenever you’re ready.” G’hornad swung his sword from its sheath and swiped it through the air several times.  
Talrukas unsheathed the twin blades from his back and fell into a defensive stance. “Your move.” He said, closing his eyes and flexing his fingers along the hilts of his blade.  
A cocky grin curling his lips, the Dalic sprang forward, his blade cutting a wide swathe through the air towards Talrukas from the right. Dodging, the young Rukaath’r inverted his left-hand blade and rammed it into G’hornad’s side while spanning one leg and tripping him up.  
“You’re too slow.” Talrukas commented calmly as he returned his blades to their sheathes and turned away. His clouded eyes swung round in Davryan’s general direction. “Are you satisfied I will not be a burden to your band, Captain Davryan?” he asked gravely.  
Watching G’hornad crawl back to his feet from the ground, Davryan felt it was no more than the Dalic deserved; to be so easily beaten by one he looked upon as utterly helpless. “I needed no proof, boy, when I had Ethryder’s word. But now that I have seen you fight with my own eyes, I know I can safely entrust any Oath member to your guard.”  
“There is one other you must meet.” Ethryder drew their attention to the last stranger, and Dream felt her heart leap in shock as she rested her eyes on him. He bore the resemblance of a human, but instead of smooth skin, he was covered in deep rusty red scales, his fingers were clawed, his head was like that of a lizard’s snout, and a long, ridged tail waved slowly from behind him. His deep green eyes were slitted like a reptile’s, and eyes them with evident unease and discomfort.  
“Is that a Darh’meir drazil?” Jarlai asked faintly.  
Ethryder and Vjelka, the only ones who had been on the Warfront and knew what the Darh’meir looked like, shook their heads. “No,” Ethryder calmed her fears. “Narr-Dok is a Tor’Xiith; a race unheard of by most in the Alliance of Crowns; they are the descendants of men, taken and twisted by Mordre in the ancient world when all men dwelt in the blessed domain.”  
“I have never heard of the Tor’Xiith.” Davryan admitted slowly.  
“You would not have, north-dweller.” Narr-Dok replied in his deep, somewhat snarlish voice. “My people live in shame of what we are, and thus have secluded ourselves from all others. Other races would see us as beasts, or mistake us for Darh’meir, as your friend here just did. Only the swamp wanderers know of us, and they are few and bound to keep our existence hidden.”  
“Swamp wanderers?” Kyzeinac queried.  
Narr-Dok nodded his snout. “Men who have stumbled upon our dwellings, gained our trust and who walk among us at times.”  
“Ethryder has given me his word concerning you all, and I trust him, therefore you are all welcome no matter your race.” Davryan answered firmly. “In turn, allow me to introduce your future brothers and sisters in the Oath. You’ve met Ethryder; my close friend and advisor. This is Kyzeinac; my second-in-command, Jarlai, G’hornad, Telrona, Dream, and Reorren is absent at this time but you’ll get to know him later.”  
“If you can get him to talk that is.” Kyzeinac added dryly.  
“You mean, if you can tear his attention away from that hideous creature of his.” G’hornad snapped ruefully.  
Jarlai smiled at Vjelka and Kai’Ryna, “Why don’t you come inside, I’ll show you upstairs to the female quarters so you can get settled in.”  
“Thank you, that will be nice.” The Amateuthian agreed.  
“Kyzeinac, could you show the men to their quarters.” Davryan requested, wanting to have a few words on private with G’hornad and then with Ethryder.  
“At once, Captain.” The Tethdorian confirmed.  
Narr-Dok hesitated, “If it’s not too much trouble, north-dweller, but I would prefer to sleep…outside.”  
“Well, of course…if you’re more comfortable out here.” Davryan replied uncertainly. “Where would you like to sleep?”  
The Tor’Xiith glanced questioningly towards the barn, and Davryan followed his gaze. “I see…well, I’ll see if it’s alright with Fhergys.” And he turned and strode towards the inn in search of the innkeeper.


	10. Chapter 10

“Is this really necessary?” Lithandre asked frettishly, pulling at the stiff leather tunic in an effort to settle it more comfortably around her figure.  
“Yes, your Highness.” Tescar replied for about the tenth time since they had started out that morning. He bit back his sigh of frustration with difficulty and focused his attention on the dusty road ahead.  
Kisaye brushed a stray lock of bronze hair from her eyes and smiled consolingly at the princess. “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it after a few days.” She told her with a smile. “Then it won’t feel so bad.”  
“I doubt it.” Lithandre grumbled, settling back in the saddle with a frown. She ran a dull look over her escort; beside Tescar and Kisaye, Rinara was also with them, along with Kisaye’s page Aerohn and a warrior from among the Tethdor’s Tyth’Kadarshi. Lithandre hadn’t really caught his name, but it was some Kareth somebody.  
“Besides,” Tescar’s voice floated back to her from the fore of the group, “you don’t think you’ll be riding all the way to Aradomoria, do you? As soon as we get to the Warfront, we’re going the rest of the way on foot, and you’ll be glad you didn’t bring your silk dresses when we’re stumbling and slipping through the Black Marshes.” He pointed out sensibly.  
‘I’m still not sure travelling through the Black marshes is such a good idea.” Kisaye ventured, flicking the ends of her mount’s reins in troubled contemplation. “Especially with the latest news we’ve had from War Marshal Sever about the growing hordes of drazil.”  
Tescar gave a nod of agreement. “But Gallandrin seemed to think it was the safest route, and King Dyanro was satisfied with that, despite the protestations of Ordril.”  
“Even Tethdor Halkutar seemed to have misgivings about it.” Kisaye recalled. Her eyes held a disturbed look as she traced a scar on her grey warhorse’s neck. Since they were only riding as far as the Warfront, their horses wore no armour, and were only caparisoned.  
The general exhaled deeply, “Well, I guess Binders as old as Gallandrin have their failings too; we’ll know soon enough if it was a good idea or not.”  
“Why couldn’t we have taken the main road into Aradomoria?” Lithandre asked wearily, not used to riding a warhorse, which was far broader in flanks and shoulders than the riding mare she was accustomed to.  
“Because that would be too obvious; and with the tension between Amateuth and Aradomoria, it would be most unwise to take you by that road.” Tescar replied with forced patience to her question. He reined his horse in at a crossroads, and scanned the broad, flat countryside that spread out before them. In the distance, he could faintly make out the blurred shapes of watchtowers that marked where the borders of the Warfront lay.  
The past weeks of swift, light travelling had cut the normal length of the journey from Wolf’s Bastion to the gates of the Warfront almost in half. Soon, if all went according to the seer’s plans, they would be in the Black Marshes. From there, with a trained guide to show the way through the treacherous fens and bogs, it was not far into Aradomoria. A warship would be waiting at the coast to take them across the Flame-Rimmed Sea, and from there, the princess and her small group would be on their own.  
Several days later, the grey scarred walls of Anoth’Arnan fortress; bastion of the Warfront, rose from the ground to greet the travellers. Knights of the Sacred Flame, having received word from the king beforehand, escorted them inside beneath the carved arches of the gates. They dismounted in the spacious courtyard, and Lithandre felt her head spin at all the confusion around her; groups of Knights rode in and out of the great gates that led out to the battle grounds of the Warfront itself, and on the walls she could see others hurrying about, peering uneasily to the south or examining the winches and pulleys of their siege engines.  
Kisaye glanced around, “There is an air of expectancy and dread here, Tescar,” she turned her cyan eyes to him. “they’re preparing for a siege.”  
He nodded, “I know; I can feel it too.”  
A Knight strode up from the direction of the inner citadel, his crimson surcoat embroidered with the emblem of a flaming white blade splashed with stains of old blood. “General Tescar,” he bowed low, “the War Marshal would see you in the keep.”  
War Marshal Sever Winterstorm turned from the narrow window as the door swung open, and his deep, Tethdorian-yellow eyes rested on Tescar and Kisaye as they stepped in. “Tescar Warblade, nice you could make it back to the Warfront after your years of absence.” He said in a voice harsh and ragged from long years of commanding men in battle, limping forward. His black hair showed signs of greying, and his weathered, stern features were marked with scars of countless conflicts.   
“The King’s business has brought me back to these ancient fields.” Tescar replied, taking the Marshal’s hand in a firm grip. “We need a guide through the Black Marshes.”  
“Yes, yes, so I’ve heard.” Sever nodded slowly. “What is his Majesty thinking, sending the Lady Lithandre through that drazil-infested swamp? It is folly, sheer folly.” He shook his head, a perplexed expression on his face.  
Tescar glanced at Kisaye, than brought his gaze back to the War Marshal. “The seer Gallandrin thought this the best route, and the king agreed. Despite our better judgement, we must do the king’s bidding.”  
Sever limped over to his desk and stiffly lowered himself into his chair. Leaning back with a strained sigh, he stared thoughtfully at the Amateuthians standing before him. “The shadow over the Warfront has not been so dark since before my time; the Darh’meir drazil are pushing us hard day and night, their numbers are legion. My Knights, despite all skill and cunning on our part, cannot push beyond the first crossing.” His eyes narrowed, “You will find it difficult, if not impossible, to traverse the Black Marshes without harassment from those vile creatures.” He warned grimly.  
“Our group is small, there is a faint chance for us to be able to pass through without attracting too much attention.” Tescar replied with more confidence then he felt.  
The War Marshal grunted doubtfully, “Maybe, but I won’t be holding my breath that’s for sure.”  
Tescar gave him a knowing grin, “You never did; not even when I went out alone to scout the drazil encampment that dark, freezing night in the middle of winter.”  
“Ha, you always were headstrong.” Sever laughed shortly. He leaned forward, “Thirty-two winters I have served here, and never have I seen the drazil so bent on slaughtering us, so organized in their tactics.” He drummed his fingers against the woodwork, “Something drives them forward.”  
There was a rush from outside the door, and a Knight burst in without ceremony, gasping for breath and staggering from more than just exhaustion. “My lord,” he paused to take another rasping swallow of air. “the drazil have broken through the outer rim of defences; they swarmed the walls under cover of darkness and slaughtered the garrison.”  
“Maker curse those bastards!” Sever muttered under his breath, “They will cross the river, no doubt, and make straight for our key defence points.” He ran a sharp eye over the Knight’s blood-splashed figure. “Summon my Knight Commanders, then get yourself to the healers.” He ordered, rising and waving him away.  
“At once, my lord.” The Knight bowed and quickly left.  
“My apologies, General Tescar,” Sever turned to him with a slight smile curling his lips. “But I would not advise your setting out just now; you may have to weather this out with us.”  
Tescar nodded, “That would be best under the circumstances.”  
“I’ll inform the others of the delay.” Kisaye offered, pausing first to give her husband an encouraging look before passing out the door.  
Sever watched her leave, then turned to Tescar knowingly. “I trust you are keeping her well?” he inquired, walking slowly to a sideboard and pouring himself a cup of wine.  
“Certainly; would you expect anything less?” Tescar replied with just a slight tinge of offense in his voice.  
The War Marshal looked at him through one eye, swishing the wine reflectively. “No, I would not.” He assured him gravely. “But as her foster-father, it’s my duty to ask into her current welfare; life as a garrison commander is different from the constant strain of the Warfront.”  
“She has no complaints.” Tescar answered, “You raised her well, she is content to serve where ever she is placed.”  
Sever smiled faintly. “Some thought it foolish for me, as War Marshal, to be spending my time raising a foundling when the Warfront lies ever under the threat of the drazil.” He gazed out the window absently for several minutes. “But I do not regret a minute of it.” He said, almost to himself as he lifted his cup and took a deep swallow.  
“I remember.” Tescar nodded, a faraway look in his grey eyes.  
“Here I am, recalling the past, when I have a battle to prepare for!” Sever grumbled, throwing his cup to the floor suddenly and swinging his sable-hemmed crimson cloak to his shoulders. “Come, there is much to do before dusksun.” He marched purposefully from the room, motioning Tescar to follow.  
Lithandre was horrified and devastated when she heard the news that they would not be moving on as planned. “Stay here, with an attack on the way?” she gasped hysterically. “Absolutely not! We have to move now.”  
“I’m afraid that’s out of the question, your Highness.” Kisaye replied calmly while Rinara and Kareth unsaddled the horses and Aerohn led them to the stables. “The drazil are too close for that, they may attack this fortress any minute. Rinara,” she requested of the royal bodyguard, “please see the princess inside the inner citadel and ensure her safety.”  
“As you will, Commander.” Rinara bowed, and then glanced at Lithandre, who frowned stubbornly. “This way, my lady.”  
Kisaye turned as a clatter of heavy hooves drummed over the bridge that spanned a narrow gully, forming a natural rift of protection to Anoth’Arnan on the west. A body of Knights swept into the courtyard, the crimson caparisons of their mounts dyed even darker with fresh blood and foam flecking across their chamfrons and necks. Swinging from their saddles, most of the Knights made for the barracks on the other side of the courtyard, while a few remained to see to the horses.  
“Where’s the War Marshal?” one called to a passing Knight.  
“On the south wall!” he yelled over his shoulder as he hurried on, his arms loaded with full quivers, bristling with red-feathered arrows.  
Kisaye flicked an eye towards the Tyth’Kadarshi. “Kareth, why don’t you go see if you can assist with preparations.” She suggested.  
“Will Anoth’Arnan hold?” Aerohn asked with wide eyes as the Tethdorian moved off in the direction of the south wall, where most of the attention was centred at that moment. He shivered involuntarily and glanced at Kisaye with anxiety evident in his young, unproven features.  
“This fortress has held since the Warfront was first founded as a first line of defence against the Darh’meir, even in the Dawnless Wars.” Kisaye comforted him. “These walls have seen darker days then these, and held strong.”  
The boy nodded, content with her assurance.  
On the south wall, Sever shaded his eyes with one hand and peered over the battle-scarred plains that stretched endless to the horizon, where a dark blur showed where the Black Marshes began. A few vulture floated lazily in the sky, croaking now and again in their horrible voices. His Knight Commanders, numbering seven, stood behind him, their grim, hardened gazes steeled for what lay ahead. A cloud of dust appeared from the outcrops of rocks that dotted the fields of conflict, and Sever nodded to himself.  
“Yes, they are coming.” He declared, half to himself half to the others near him. “They will be here by dusksun.” He jerked around, sizing his commanders up. Suddenly, he paused. “Where is Commander Vdor?” he demanded with a hint of impatience.  
“He and hiz men refuzed to leave the outer rim vhen it fell.” One of his Commanders replied, his accent and slightly indecipherable speech betraying his Vakaric lineage. “De messenger vaz to tell you.”  
Sever sighed heavily. “Stubborn Tethdorian…no doubt he’s gotten himself and his men killed.” He muttered under his breath. “Sometimes I think my people take their stubborn fearlessness to an extreme.”  
“You do?” Tescar raised his eyebrows questioningly.  
The War Marshal ignored him, and swiftly issued orders. “Recall our patrols inside the fortress, and shut the gates. Seal the viaducts; we won’t give those lizard-snakes the pleasure of swimming across. Bring the boiling oil to the walls, we’ll roast them when they try to scale the walls.”   
His men leapt down the stairs to see his orders carried out. Tescar bent his eyes on the dust cloud in the distance, eyes narrowed as he envisioned the serpent-like forms of the drazil hurrying forwards, their hatred and lust for blood driving them on. Sever paced the wall impatiently; he hated having to do battle in the confines of these stone walls, he preferred to be out there on the fields, lance in hand, driving them back with the mere force of his Knights’ charge. But there were far too many, he realized, his men and steeds would be quickly overwhelmed in that horde. They could only wait, and make their stand upon these ancient, battle-worn walls.


	11. Chapter 11

Braziers burned on the walls of Anoth’Arnan, outlining the armoured figures of Knights who stood on watch, tense and alert. The night sky lay shrouded by dense clouds, and rain fell, sleeking the walls and lashing against the stones of the defences. Tescar and Sever stood side by side on the south wall, listening the slithering, scurrying sounds of the drazil moving in the darkness. Torches blazed through the gloom, and the beat of drums reached their ears.  
Sever’s brow furrowed, “Dred’Cath? Here?” he muttered. “Why didn’t our scouts see them then?”  
Tescar gazed over the host that lay spread out and revealed to the desperate defenders on the wall. He stared hard at the dark, tall shapes that reared above the hostile army like giant trees, just with no branches or foliage. It took him only a glimpse to realize what they really were.   
“Siege towers.” He bit his lip.  
Sever leaned forward, his armoured fingers gripping the wall like vices. His eyes flashed from behind his visor-slits, and his voice was tight as he said, “They wouldn’t be able to assault us properly without them…that’s why they need the Dred’Cath. This makes things more difficult.” He sucked in his breath sharply.  
He stepped to the edge of the wall, “Bring up the trebuchets!” he barked tersely to the Knights waiting below. “Burning stones, load them up!”  
“Get down!” a warning scream tore through the night air from the tower.  
Seconds later, the wall shook as a barrage of stones from the enemy ranks hurtled through the air to smash into smithereens against the battered face of the wall. The Knights standing on the top teetered and grasped the bulwarks for support.   
Sever slammed his fist against the bulwark infront of him. “Maker damn those lizards!” he growled, straightening up and glaring at the hostile army sprawled before his fortress. He grabbed the commander standing nearby, “Get to the ballista towers, and make sure the bolts are primed to take those towers down once they come in range.” He ordered.  
A muffled crash drew his attention momentarily from the advancing force, “What was that?”  
“War Marshal!” a Knight cried through the darkness. “The Dred’Cath have laid siege to the east wall!”  
“Siege on two fronts, good.” The Tethdorian’s eyes gleamed with the fires of war. “Divert men to the east wall and make sure the ballista towers on that section remain intact.”  
The wall shook under the repeated barrage from the enemy siege engines, and the towers lumbered slowly, but steadily forward. Sever kept an eye on their progress, holding back his own until they were in clear range. “Release!”  
The drums of the Dred’Cath and the noise of their east siege were drowned out as the Amateuthian trebuchets’ arms swung forward, and the gears and cranks creaked in protest as the weights were released. The night sky burned as with a thousand hanging braziers as the burning stones hurtled towards the enemy lines in fiery arches. They plunged to the ground, crushing drazil and Dred’Cath alike and smashing into the wooden structures of the siege towers, setting the timber frames alight.  
One siege tower, struck by several stones at once, shuddered as hungry flames licked at the wooden beams. The Dred’Cath and drazil inside scrambled to escape the structure as it erupted in a cloud of fire; many leaped down in a vain effort to escape only smash themselves on the rocks below. The tower collapsed onto itself, swaying as it lost balance and crashed slowly to the ground in a great cloud of dust and ashes.  
The Dred’Cath retaliated with another hail of their own stones, and several of the Amateuthian trebuchets were hit and rendered useless with their frames shattered and reduced to rubble. One was hit by a flaming boulder, and the Knights sprang to smother the spreading flames. The walls shook again and again, and Sever cast a concerned glance towards the east wall. If it was to fall…the inner walls would then be in danger.

Lithandre jumped as the first tremor jarred the walls and was felt from the inner citadel. She glanced uneasily toward Rinara, who was standing by the window watching the walls meditatively; the guard showed no signs of alarm or fear, rather, there was a nostalgic look in her dark eyes.  
“I’ve missed this.” Her words astonished Lithandre into speechlessness for several minutes.  
“How…how can you say that?” she gasped once she had found her tongue.  
Rinara smiled faintly, “The Warfront is a terrible place in a way, but in another way, its home to the Knights of the Sacred Flame and all who serve here for however long. Not all the memories we carry from this place are dark or sorrowful; I was born here, raised here, fought here, and I wanted to die here too before…” she paused and bowed her head, “before my father sent me away.” She finished softly.  
“Sent you away?” Lithandre repeated, momentarily forgetting the impending danger. “Why?”  
Rinara sighed quietly, “He didn’t want the Warfront to claim his only child…as it had claimed his wife. So he sent me to Adrathsil, to the royal palace where I was taken into the service of the king.” She closed her eyes briefly, “I never saw my father again; he was killed by the drazil shortly after I left…there was so little left of his body I was told it couldn’t even be buried properly.”  
Understanding dawned on Lithandre, and for a brief minute she forgot herself and her arrogant pride. “You think you could have saved him if you were there?” she asked carefully.  
“Maybe,” Rinara answered, glancing out the window once again as the citadel trembled and dust sifted from the vaulted ceiling above them. “But that’s something I will never know.”  
The keep shook, harder than before, and there was a muffled crash from outside. Concern streaked across Rinara’s face as she looked up and crossed to the opposite window. “The east wall is giving way,” she observed tensely, “there is too much siege on that side for the ballistae to handle.”  
Lithandre went white, and sank onto a nearby bench, hugging herself as frightening shivers ran up her back. “We’re all going to die here.” She whispered frantically.  
The bodyguard ran a hand down the haft of her ordron. “I wasn’t there to save my father, your Highness, but I’m here now with you. I swear, those fiends won’t touch you so long as I draw breath.” She promised fervently.

“My lord,” a breathless Knight panted up the stairs. “the east wall is taking a severe pounding; it won’t hold for long.”   
The War Marshal pursed his lips and glanced over the wall as another rain of flaming boulders flew overhead and crashed into the ranks of the enemy, now plainly visible under the light of another day. “Order Commander Atuuran to bring his Knights to the east wall and prepare to repel the Dred’Cath when the wall falls.” He decided firmly. “Get oils set up on the sections still intact…they will pay a heavy price to set foot in this keep.”  
“Ladders!” Tescar warned at his side, his eyes never leaving the approaching armies. “That tower is getting close too.”  
Sever signalled to the men in the ballista towers, and they released the heavy bolts; the heads buried themselves into the sides of the tower, and weights at the ends were released over the wall, bringing the lines taunt. The siege tower creaked as the force at the ends of the ropes pulled it off balance. Archers on the towers rained flaming arrows at the sides, engulfing the tower in flames as it crashed to the ground, spreading chaos momentarily among the Dred’Cath and drazil as burning timbers were thrown into their midst.  
Suddenly a cry rose from the east wall, drowned out by a thunderous crash that shook the ground and sent warning drums pounding through Sever’s head. The wall had given way at last after days under the intense pressure of the Dred’Cath siege, and soon the enemy would be pouring in, hungry for blood and slaughter. The horses in the stables sent up screams of defiance, scenting battle and finding themselves denied their place in it.  
“Tescar,” Sever grasped his arm, “get to the east wall and help with the defence there.”  
“But- ” he began in protest.  
Sever shook his head and pushed him towards the stairs even as flaming boulders crashed into the courtyard below. Men screamed as they were caught in the area of impact and either crushed to death or set alight and burned to ashes in the searing flames. The War Marshal looked Tescar in the eye, “Your place is by your wife on the east wall, not here with me. Go!” he commanded in a voice that could not be disobeyed.

When the wall fell away in a blinding cloud of dust and rubble, Kisaye had been thrown to the ground by the sudden tremor that had ripped along the walls on either side of the breach. Her armour dampened the fall, and she scrambled to her feet with only bruises. With hideous yells and screams, Dred’Cath sprang over the rubble, brandishing their cruel, jagged blades, their unhuman eyes burning with a fierce, chilling light.  
“Oils! Now!” Kisaye shouted to the Knights still on the wall.  
The steaming cauldrons tilted forwards, and thick streams of boiling, black oil poured downwards on the Dred’Cath. Archers stationed on the inner walls sent a hail of flaming arrows down on the breach, and the oil ignited, transforming the breach into a sea of fire and panicked Dred’Cath as they floundered about trying to put out the hungry flames that licked up the oil, spreading swiftly through their ranks.   
Repelled by the oils, the Dred’Cath retreated back over the breach, leaving many of their number dead or flaying about wildly as the flames consumed them. They sent a hail of their own arrows through the breach, and the Knights scrambled for cover behind their barricades. The Dred’Cath charged the breach again, and were once more driven back by the oils.  
They directed their arrows to the Knights who manned the oils on the walls, who ducked behind the bulwarks to avoid the hissing shafts. Kisaye sized up the situation, “Get a shield-wall up there!” she ordered Commander Atuuran urgently, darting out of cover to assist a Knight who lay before the breach, an arrow through his lower leg.  
A line of Knights, carrying the broad, three-cornered shields Amateuthians preferred, sprang to the wall and formed a solid barrier to foil any arrow hails the Dred’Cath might launch. Boulders hurled through the air, smashing against the inner wall. Kisaye dragged the Knight to safety and threw a desperate glance towards the ballista towers; they didn’t have enough ballistae to take down all those trebuchets.  
A flaming boulder crashed down onto the breach in the wall, and in its wake, Dred’Cath came pouring in again. This time they ignored the oils that splashed and sloshed over their heads and surged into the courtyard, followed by countless others. Arrows from the archers on the inner wall snapped and hummed through the burnt air, mowing down the first lines of Dred’Cath. Corpses piled around and on the breach.  
Commander Atuuran and his Knights engaged them, and the sounds of clashing steel rang and echoed through the fortress. Overhead, strong lines whipped across the intervening space and locked into the walls of the citadel behind the fighting lines. Kisaye glanced up to see drazil scaling the lines, their lithe scaled bodies moving forward fluidly; they meant to infiltrate the keep itself while most of the Knights were occupied in the courtyard and on the walls.  
“Lithandre!” she gasped, remembering the princess was in the citadel under Rinara’s guard. She pushed a Dred’Cath from her path, stabbing him through the torso and bolting for the citadel gates.  
Rounding the corner, she collided into Tescar.  
“Kisaye!” he exclaimed in alarm, catching her in his arms. “What –”  
“The Dred’Cath have raised scaling lines; the drazil are about to infiltrate the citadel!” she stammered breathlessly, steadying herself against him. “I have to ensure Lithandre’s safety, Rinara can’t take them alone.”  
Tescar threw a glance towards the east wall. “They inside the breach?”  
“Yes,” she nodded.  
“Go then, keep the princess safe.” He agreed, “I’ll take over here with Commander Atuuran.”  
In the citadel, Rinara went tense when she heard the hooked lines strike into the wall. She placed herself before Lithandre, “Whatever happens, your Highness,” she said with determination in her voice, “keep well out of the way.”  
The princess nodded, unsure what was happening.  
For several tense minutes, the only sounds to be heard was the fighting from outside and the repeated crash of boulders against walls. Then came a splintering of glass, and Lithandre’s terror-stricken eyes fell on the serpent-like form that crouched in the shattered window, peering inside. With two arms it held the window frame, and with two arms it grasped a scythe-like spear. Leaping inside, it was swiftly followed by five others. Their lithe, scaled bodies ended in long, dangerous tails that lashed the marble floor, and thin forked tongues curled around their deadly fangs.  
Lithandre shivered as their crafty, cold eyes fell on her, and they lunged forward with incredible speed. She screamed and shrunk back against the furthest wall of the main hall, while Rinara sprang to intercept the drazil. Her ordron, being double-bladed, easily parried their initial strikes, but then they fanned out, using their tails and extra pair of arms to strike out.  
Rinara dodged and avoided both; knowing only too well the freezing poison that lurked in their claws and the suffocating strength of their tails. Spinning on one boot, she sank to one knee and her ordron severed the tail of one that didn’t withdraw it soon enough. Shrieking and spitting in agony, the wounded drazil recoiled back, green blood dripping from the stump of its tail and sizzling on the floor. Rinara moved in, swiping aside its arms as it writhed in pain, and plunging her ordron straight through its serpent body.  
A long-drawn croak of pain echoed across the hall as the drazil fell back with its death cry. Before Rinara could withdraw her weapon from its twitching corpse, claws flashed in the dim light, and raked down her back, tearing through her surcoat and rending the mail beneath. Her cry of pain jarred Lithandre’s ears, and she held her breath as the bodyguard fell to her knees, her grip on her ordron haft loosening.  
But the Knights of the Sacred Flame do not give up easily; their longs years on the Warfront hardening them beyond the calibre of most warriors and instilling in them resilience and endurance to fight on despite physical wounds. Rinara pulled herself up, and swung her ordron from the dead drazil to hit the one behind her.  
The others closed in, the scent of their fallen driving them into a frenzy. Their tails lashed out, whipping the air. Rinara evaded them stiffly, blood dripping to the floor from her back. The poison of the drazil worked slowly through her veins, dulling her senses and slowing her movements as the paralysing effects of the venom began to settle in her body. She inverted her ordron and stabbed one drazil, the rear-blade slicing into its upper left arm.   
A tail hissed close by; too weak to avoid it, she felt it fasten around her ordron haft and wrench it from her numb grip. Myst swang before her eyes, and her legs trembled beneath her. A drazil stabbed its spear forward. Blood rose before her eyes as she felt it stab into her lower torso; her knees gave out beneath her, she fell, faintly hearing her own scream of agony as it tore up her throat. The marble floor seemed strangely close to her face, and she felt hot blood streaming down her chin; it dripped from her helmet rim and splashed to the floor before her failing sight.  
All the memories of her past years fighting on the Warfront clouded in her mind; she saw her father faintly in her mind’s eye how she last remembered him, tall and strong, always making sure she was safe. Tears brimmed in her eyes, and she coughed up blood. Dimly she felt something tighten around her waist, and lift her from the ground. The drazil threw her limp body aside; she struck a pillar with a sickening crunch and slumped to the floor motionless.  
Lithandre had watched with wide eyes during the whole fight, fear paralysing her to the spot. With the guard out of their way, the drazil now turned to her with malicious intent in their beady, reptile eyes. The princess felt her gaze pulled irresistibly from the inert body of her protector to the chilling glare of the drazil, and she found she couldn’t even scream as she watched them draw back their weapons, ready to slaughter her at their pleasure.


	12. Chapter 12

Dream lifted the sword from the grindstone and ran a hand lightly along the edge of the blade, feeling the sharp keenness of the honed edge. She placed it in Talrukas’ hands, “How does that feel? Done?” she inquired.  
The blind Rukaath’r felt the blade slowly, gingerly. He nodded and returned it to his sheath with a grateful smile. “Yes, thank you, it’s perfect.”  
Vjelka looked up from nearby where she leaned against the wall of the low barn where the innkeeper kept his cows and other livestock that furnished the tables of his humble inn. Taking the length of straw from her mouth, she commented lightly, “I might get you to sharpen mine while you’re at it, Dream.”  
The girl smiled, but she did not laugh; laughing seemed an impossibility ever since the death of her near-mother. “I’m not sure I could…your greatsword looks rather heavy.”  
“It is.” The Amateuthian woman replied with an easy shrug. “Most warriors wouldn’t care to swing such a weight, they prefer a single blade and a shield. Of course,” she reflected through slitted eyes, “most female warriors wouldn’t be able to use such a weapon anyway. Greatswords require a certain amount of brawn and discipline so it doesn’t swing crazily.”  
Dream eyed her sturdy-looking figure, “Well, you seem capable of using it.”  
“Years on the Warfront shaped my body like this…and then under my master as well; he always had me do the heavier labour.” She answered, flicking the bit of straw away. Her eyes shifted towards the inn gate.  
“Are travellers common on this road?” she asked, motioning in the direction she was gazing.  
Dream looked up, and saw a rider had entered the innyard, and was ridden his horse right up to the inn porch. Fhergys stepped out, and she could hear the low murmur of voices as the two conversed. She studied the rider; he was clad in black leather with curious-shaped blades sheathed at his back, and a deep hood concealed his features. The horse was of a light, fleet build, and the sun gleamed against his ebony flanks and caught the shine of silver buckles on his harness.  
“That horse is tired.” Talrukas observed; his sightless eyes turned in the general direction of the rider. “He must have ridden a long way.”  
Vjelka cocked her head, “He doesn’t look like any Aradomorian I have seen before…he does not have their haughty air.”  
Dream saw the innkeeper nod and indicate towards the road, as if giving the rider directions. Then he stepped back inside, and the stranger wheeled his horse about, ready to ride away. Suddenly he paused, and turned unseen eyes towards the three figures by the grindstone. Dream felt his piercing gaze rest on her for a long minute, as if searching for something, and the scars on her face burned with a sudden, fierce pain.  
She bit her lip to suppress a groan, and watched with mingled relief and mistrust as the stranger urged his mount into a swift trot and disappeared from sight out the inn gate. She pressed a hand to her face, feeling the pain gradually subside.  
“Are you feeling alright?” Vjelka inquired, eyeing her with concern.  
Dream nodded, not trusting her voice at the moment.  
Talrukas cast a sympathetic glance her way. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I got this feeling he was searching for something.”  
Vjelka frowned, “Same,” her features creased in a thoughtful expression. She slowly straightened up from leaning against the barn wall. “It’s quiet around here…first few days we were here it was bustling with activity. Now I’m starting to miss even Telrona’s liveliness!”  
“Where’s your brother, Talrukas?” Dream asked suddenly. “I haven’t seen him since this morning.”  
He turned his sightless eyes in the direction of the inn. “Talrosas? He went with Jarlai and Reorren; Davryan wanted Jarlai to teach him how to ride.”  
Dream nodded. Davryan and the innkeeper had gone to the town several days ago to visit the horse market. They had overlooked the typical, small horses of Aradomoria, and instead bought mounts from Rukaath’r. Kyzeinac had looked over them with a critical eye, remarking dryly that they were no Tethdorian warhorses, but that he would rather ride those of Rukaath’r then Aradomoria.  
“Why didn’t you go?” Vjelka questioned with surprise in her voice. “A horse has eyes…you wouldn’t need to worry about bumping into things.”  
Talrukas looked uneasy as he traced a crooked circle in the dust with the toe of one boot. “It would look…awkward.” He murmured lamely. “And I would need eyes, how else am I supposed to guide my horse where to go?”  
“Oh, I guess that’s true.” Vjelka replied in apologetic tones, wishing she had never asked in the first place. She didn’t like to remind the boy of his limitations, especially not in such obvious matters.  
Dream brushed grinding dust from the sleeves of her surcoat and paused to admire the delicate embroidery across the front. Davryan had requested Jarlai and the rest of the females among the Oath to create a special outfit for all the Oath shortly after the arrival of the new members. Dream loved the white emblem of an upright, winged blade against a background of deep blue; it gave her a sense of belonging she had not had before. Her hasty, confused choice to become an Oath had hardened into a firm, loyal decision she did not regret. The Oath were her family now, they would protect her and in turn she would protect them with all the strength and fervour she could muster.  
“Reorren…” Talrukas asked slowly, hesitantly. “he doesn’t talk much, does he?”  
Vjelka crossed her arms over her chest and looked to Dream for an answer. She shook her head, “No, I haven’t heard him say one word since I first found myself among them.”  
“I know the sound of everyone’s voices except his.” Talrukas commented. He looked up suddenly, falling silent as he listened. “Jarlai is running back.” He informed the others, “Alone.”  
Dream glanced to the inn gate in time to see Jarlai, looking dishevelled and rather distraught, stumble into the inn yard, quite out of breath. “Dream!” she called urgently, collapsing to the ground from exhaustion. “Call Davryan, there’s been an accident!”  
All three rushed forward. “Jarlai, what has happened?” Dream asked in alarm, knowing well that the Aradomorian had never been strong and was so careful not to strain herself. She knelt by her side and threw a quick glance at Vjelka, “Get her some water, quickly!”  
She turned back to Jarlai, who was struggling to control her wild breathing while her slender sides heaved from exertion. “Jarlai, what happened?” she asked again, striving to keep her own voice calm and measured.  
Jarlai turned large, frightened eyes to her. “There was an…an ac-accident…in the field.” She stammered, her voice shaking with fear.  
“Is Talrosas alright?” Talrukas broke in quickly. He had knelt on the other side of Jarlai, and felt around till he had found her shoulder, and the warm pressure of his touch seemed to bring a sense of composure and reason back to the frightened Aradomorian.  
Jarlai swallowed and took a deep breath. Vjelka appeared with a cup in her hands, and handed it to Dream. After Jarlai had taken several sips, she began again. “I made a sudden movement behind the horse, and it shied back. Reorren was thrown off and…” she gulped uneasily. “…and he…he’s injured. I told Talrosas to stay with him. Where’s Davryan?”  
“Davryan and Ethryder went into town with Ethran.” Vjelka replied softly. “I’ll go find Kyzeinac.” She turned and strode swiftly towards the inn.  
But the lean Tethdorian, alerted by all the commotion outside, had come to the porch and had heard the last part of Jarlai’s woeful tale. He came forward, “Dream, help Jarlai inside so she can rest, then come back. Vjelka, find Narr-Dok and saddle the horses.” He ordered decisively.  
Dream assisted Jarlai to her feet and helped her inside, remembering that Kai’Ryna was out gathering herbs with the innkeeper’s wife, and G’hornad had gone hunting at Davryan’s orders earlier that morning. “Did you want anything?” she asked, making Jarlai comfortable on her bed.  
“No.” she shook her head. Grasping Dream’s arms, she stared into her eyes with a look of undisguised horror. “Dream, what have I done?” she agonized. “What if Reorren dies?”  
Dream pressed her gently back, “Now Jarlai, you just rest now. We’ll take care of Reorren; it was an accident. You’re…you’re only going to make things worse by stewing like this.” She added soberly.  
Out in the yard, Vjelka and Narr-Dok had the horses saddled and Kyzeinac was giving last minute instructions. “Vjelka, you and Talrukas stay here; Davryan and Ethryder should be back soon. Explain where the rest of us are and make sure Jarlai doesn’t worry herself to death. Dream, Narr-Dok, with me.” He swung expertly astride a dappled stallion with white legs and gathered the reins in his hands.  
Dream took the dark bay near her, and the Tor-Xiith mounted, rather clumsily, the pale dun beside her. They galloped down the road in a cloud of brown dust, and it was only as the wide field where they practised horse-riding and combat skills came into view that Dream remembered she had left without her mask. Not that it mattered, she told herself as they slowed to a trot. She surprised herself with how many times she forgot her disfigurement; and was only made aware of the fact when people stared.  
She saw Jarlai’s ashen mare grazing by the brook rather placidly, and then brought her gaze round to where Talrosas knelt by the inert form of Reorren. She could see his chest rising and falling as she slipped from the saddle, and it brought consolation to her that he was, at least for the present, still alive.  
Talrosas’ white stallion was standing loyally behind his young master, head low over the boy’s shoulder. The dark-legged grey horse stood aloof, eyeing them cautiously from nervous liquid eyes. He nickered in a low, hoarse tone, lashing his tail against his flanks and clearly not disposed to move from the protective shade of the tree he had planted himself under.  
“How is he?” Kyzeinac inquired as he approached Talrosas and squatted on one knee near Reorren. The lean scout turned his head slightly, a thin stream of blood trickling down his chin.  
“I think he might have broken several ribs.” Talrosas replied uncertainly. “But his fox won’t let me come any closer, so I don’t know for sure.”  
Dream dropped her eyes to Reorren, and saw the black form of his fox huddled against him, fangs bared and vermeil eyes glaring at the intruders warningly. Narr-Dok came closer and crouched, making soft, mewling sounds in the back of his throat. The fox swung its head sharply in his direction, and thrust out her little, pointed muzzle curiously. She sprang nimbly from the shelter of Reorren’s side, and rubbed her head against the Tor-Xiith’s knee.  
Reorren’s dark eyes turned to Narr-Dok, and Dream saw an unreadable look in his cold, distant gaze. Kyzeinac firmly pried the scout’s hands away from his chest, and examined him closely. He glanced up, “I think it’s worse than broken ribs, but we’ll let the healers tend to him.” He rested his hands against his hips, leaning back on his heels. “Let’s get him back to the inn.”


	13. Chapter 13

Davryan and Ethryder both looked up as Dream entered the parlour, and she saw the concern burning in their questioning gazes. “Well?” Davryan asked tensely, “How is he?”  
“It’s nothing too serious,” she swept away their doubt and fear. “Kai’Ryna says he has several broken ribs and bad bruising; he’ll be in bed for several weeks.” She drew a stool to the hearth and seated herself before the roaring flames, warming her hands. “He’s resting now.”  
“Kai’Ryna?” Ethryder frowned, “I thought Jarlai was our healer.”  
Dream eyed him carefully, weighing her words. “Well yes, but Kai’Ryna has been learning from her since she came here. Reorren was…uncomfortable with Jarlai tending to him.”  
Davryan folded his hands over the edge of the table. “I’ve tried to tell Reorren that Jarlai is one of us and that it’s wrong for him to distrust and shun her.” He sighed deeply, a troubled expression on his face. “But he just looks at me and shakes his head – he won’t even say why.”  
“You don’t think the boy’s mute, do you?” Ethryder inquired in mild surprise.  
Davryan shook his head, “No, I don’t. But his silence makes it hard to know whether he even listens to what I say.” He stared at the smooth surface of the table for several minutes, then looked up. “Telrona has established firm support in Banrheig; we can move against the garrison anytime.” He announced.  
The former Knight of the Sacred Flame nodded his approval. “That’s good news, we can finally make a move against Ostor.”  
Kyzeinac stepped in, followed by Vjelka and Ethran’Dalcon. The Vakaric rubbed his hands briskly as he pulled off his leather gloves and sought the consoling warmth of the hearth. “Tiz getting chilly out dere.” He observed to the others, “Deiz Aradomorian vinterz come too early and linger too long vhor my liking.”  
Raising an eyebrow, Kyzeinac took his place at the table and poured himself some wine from the flagon nearby. “The winters of this kingdom could hardly make snow fall in Tethdoria.” He remarked dryly, taking a slow sip of his drink and switching his attention from Ethran to Davryan. “We’re taking the town then?”  
Davryan hedged a little. “I’m not certain yet, we’re down a number since Reorren’s accident.”  
Kyzeinac cocked his head, his yellow eyes narrowing to mere slivers of burning light. “Only by one, Jarlai was going to remain here anyway.” He reminded rather pointedly, as if numbers were of little importance to him.  
The Oath Captain agreed with a slight nod, and waved a hand to Dream, “Bring me the map Telrona was good enough to borrow from the Aradomorian barracks, if you please.” He requested, pushing his cup away. Dream brought the roll of soft, treated leather from its niche on the mantle above the hearth, and spread it out on the table. Davryan and his two chiefs leaned over it in contemplation, and Dream hovered nearby, peering over Davryan’s shoulder.  
“If we split our numbers into three groups, and enter the barracks through the main gate and side doors, we’ll cut off their retreat.” He planned, laying his finger firmly over a dark smear centred directly in the heart of the town. “It will be Telrona’s task to ready the townspeople and slaves; most of the Aradomorians – except the wealthy ones – are on our side and with the weapons Telrona has smuggled to them, should help against the town guard.”  
Dream couldn’t hide the look of surprise that crossed her face. She hadn’t heard anything of this before; she guessed there were advantages to being part of Davryan’s war council she hadn’t realized till now. She wondered fleetingly if perhaps she was supposed to be here in the first place, and was considering quietly stepping out, when something Ethryder said brought her attention back with a start.  
“So, you and Kyzeinac will be leading one group, me the other, and Dream the last as we had previously planned?” he asked, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms behind his neck in almost a leisurely manner.  
“Yes, I think that’s still the best option…I’m not trusting G’hornad with a group, he’d mess the whole thing up.” Davryan replied readily.  
Dream jerked up, “What?” Her eyes widened in alarm as she took a step back in her initial shock. “Davryan, that’s impossible, I can’t –” she began in earnest protest.  
Davryan held up a hand to stem the tide of her objections. “Ethryder did tell me of how you led the others back the night we infiltrated the castle, and he says you did very well. That’s why I’m giving you this command, Dream; I trust you and you have experience that the others lack.” He explained calmly.  
Kyzeinac set his cup down with exaggerated care and glanced at Dream, “Relax, Tethdorians knights are be given their first command at sixteen, and you’re a year older than that.”  
Ethryder could barely suppress a grin as he said, “I’m not sure that was taken as the encouragement it was meant to be, Kye.”  
“Why not?” Kyzeinac looked toward him; there was no surprise or challenge in his voice, it was completely passive as Tethdorians learn to masterfully control their tone of voice so as to appear always indifferent. “She’s Blaideish, got enough Tethdorian blood in her to make us kin…of sorts.”  
Dream gasped, “How do you know I’m Blaideish?”  
The Tethdorian shrugged, “Your features; Blaideish are the descendants of the ancient order of BladeStryders, so they carry Tethdorian and Amateuthian blood strongly, and are faint mirrors of each race.” He eyed her strangely, “You didn’t know?”  
Dream shook her head slowly. “No…I didn’t.”  
“So, its settled then?” Davryan made his voice heard in the council once more, his eyes directed to Dream mainly.  
She paused; she could not deny the sudden thrill she has secretly felt at hearing Davryan had assigned her to lead a group. Nor could she ignore the deep, inner passion that sparked in her heart; a strange, unexplained longing to place herself in the fore of danger and cleanse the kingdom of the dark shadow that had long held them in misery and affliction. “I’m honoured by this responsibility, Davryan.” She finally replied, unable to find words to completely express her gratitude and loyalty.

A few days later, as night fell over the land, the small group at the Running Crescent prepared for their first act of defiance against the tyranny of Ostor, and the cruelty that had cast its dark stain on the kingdom for many years. Dream drew her swordbelt around her slender waist and tightened the cinch securely. This time she remembered her mask; Telrona had procured it for her at the town, though she wouldn’t divulge exactly how. It was crafted from some lightweight steel, and covered her entire face, leaving slits for her eyes. The smooth surface gleamed softly in the lamplight, revealing decorative swirls that were not visible out of direct light. Drawing on her hood, she descended the stairs, joining those already ready and waiting below.  
Fhergys had put out most of the lights, and only a single lamp burned in the parlour where they gathered. The fire in the hearth burned low. Dream felt the uncanny tenseness of the room, and admitted to herself that she felt nervous at the whole prospect that loomed before them. Vjelka and Ethran looked calm, unusually serious and stood somewhat apart from the others, conversing in low tones in a language Dream did not understand.  
Kai’Ryna sat on a low bench, her dual blades sheathed crosswise at her back and her keen, somewhat elusive, eyes staring into the embers of the fire. Narr-Dok leaned against the wall beside her, the light of the lamp throwing gold reflections against the rusty redness of his scales. Telrona crouched thoughtfully nearby, her eager, vibrant eyes now veiled with a seriousness beyond her years as she repeated her part in the night’s work to herself countless times. G’hornad lounged in a corner, his sullen face drawn up into a sneer as he stared through slitted eyes at Talrukas, who was sitting with his brother at the table grabbing a bite to eat before they had to set out.  
Dream watched him cautiously, no doubt he was still nursing his injured pride at being so soundly put in his place by a blind warrior so much younger then himself. She sincerely hoped he was not assigned to her group. Memories of how he had belittled her place among them during Ethryder’s rescue and even tried to counter Davryan’s word echoed dimly through her mind.  
Davryan stepped in, followed closely by Ethryder and Kyzeinac. The young captain eyed them all long and searchingly. Dream saw by aid of the lamplight that he wore a grave and almost absent expression, the weight of their mission resting heavily upon his shoulders. He took a deep breath and turned to Narr-Dok first, “The horses saddled?”  
“Yes Captain, all ready.” The Tor-Xiith nodded his lizard-like head. He’d taken to calling Davryan ‘captain’ rather than ‘north dweller’ several weeks ago when he discovered through Ethryder that Davryan had never seen his own homeland before.  
“Good, thank you.” Davryan sounded slightly relieved of a small weight from his burden as leader. “Now remember, all of you,” his clear eyes swept the room as if to bring them all under his gaze. “Many of the town’s inhabitants are on our side, and have promised to aid us. Our quarrel is with Ostor’s men in the garrison. I will take Kyzeinac, G’hornad and Telrona with me. Vjelka, Ethran and Narr-Dok are with Ethryder, and Kai’Ryna and the other two are with Dream.” He paused as the Oath members went to stand by their respective group leaders, then went on, “I will take the front gates while Telrona rouses the people, who will take care of the guards patrolling the streets. Ethryder will take the left side door, and Dream will go in by the right door.”  
The other leaders nodded to show they understood their roles. They swung heavy dark cloaks over their shoulders, and silently passed out into the inn yard where their horses waited by the gate. The innkeeper had promised Davryan earlier in the day that he would leave the door unbarred, but lock it, and had given Davryan a second key. As Dream swung onto her dark bay, she glanced up, noticing the light coming from one of the second floor windows and hoping Jarlai would not feel lonely here by herself, with nothing to do but watch over Reorren.  
Talrukas rode, rather uneasily, behind Talrosas, his arms locked tightly around his brother’s waist. Kai’Ryna guided her dappled red mare to Dream’s left, and the small company of riders set out into the darkness, the hooves of their mounts ringing on the hard-packed dirt road.


	14. Chapter 14

Dream crouched at the corner of the street, one hand on her swordhilt and the other resting against the wall of the building in whose shadows she and her group took refuge as a mounted patrol trotted slowly up the street. She was certain Talrukas, who was closest, could hear the frantic hammering of her heart through her surcoat. It seemed to thunder in her ears, and she couldn’t stop the shivers that ran up and down her body. She closed her fingers around the hilt of her blade to keep them still, and wished the patrol would hurry and pass. Kai’Ryna and Talrosas huddled at the back, shrouded in their cloaks yet shivering in the chilly wind.  
The dull clop of the horse hooves faded away into the night, and the small band darted furtively across the street, slowly but steadily making their way to the town centre. The streets were dark; except for the occasional torchposts at odd corners, and empty; except for a stray dog or two that slunk past. The houses, built mostly from hewn limber, appeared silent and deserted. Yet inside most, the inhabitants were alert and waiting for the signal, their weapons grasped firmly in their hands, their faces pale but set. While in the dwellings of the wealthy, the richly-clad nobles snored in miserable peace upon their ill-gotten pillows, their covetous dreams undisturbed by the dark figures lurking in their streets. Below in their mean, filth-ridden confines not fit to stable even the most hated of beasts, their slaves waited in patience, trying not to jangle their shackles too much in suppressed excitement.  
The stone walls of the barracks, reinforced from the inside by stout, solid beams, reared over the surrounding houses like an indomitable sentinel. The glare of torch flames moving along the wall revealed the movements of sentries as they went about the walls. Dream peered through the darkness, her eyes searching the gloom for the side door assigned to her group. An alcove in the stone marked the postern, and after the next patrol had lumbered by at a nerve-straining pace, Dream led the way from shadow to shadow till they all crouched in the shelter of the alcove.  
“Now we just wait.” She whispered to her companions, resting one knee against the ground. The clouds parted briefly, and the twin moons let their silverly light be seen momentarily before once more being shut away by the thick banks of clouds. Dream withdrew into the depths of her hood as drops of rain began to patter against her shoulders and splat on the pavement around her.  
“Great – rain!” Talrukas muttered from behind her. There was no expression in his sightless eyes, but Dream could hear the irritation lurking in his hushed tones.  
Movement reached her ears, and she turned slightly. Talrosas had laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder reassuringly. “Just stay by me; you’ll be fine once we get inside.” He directed quietly. He shifted his eyes to Dream, “When is that signal coming? We’re going to get soaked if this keeps up.”  
“Telrona hasn’t come by yet…” Kai’Ryna added somewhat doubtfully.  
Dream bit her lip, “She needs to open the main gate and other side door first.” She found herself reminding them in practical tones. “Patrols would slow her down as well.” They waited in silence for what seemed like hours, while the rain steadily became heavier and more blinding. Dream felt dampness soaking through her surcoat; her cloak was absolutely drenched and droplets fell from the overhanging of her hood.  
“I think,” Talrukas ventured after a while, “I think someone is coming.”  
Dream strained her ears. Faint but gradually coming closer, footsteps tapped on the wet pavement, and the agile form of Telrona soon crouched beside her. “Sorry I took so long,” she apologized in low tones, fiddling softly with the lock on the door. “Davryan detained me with instructions, and the patrols seem so slow tonight.”  
“Everything alright still?” Dream asked anxiously.  
“Yes, yes, it’s all fine.” The Vakaric assured her quickly as the lock clicked and she withdrew her lockpick and pressure key. “Go on in, the others are already waiting inside. I’ll go alert the townspeople now.” With those words, she vanished into the rain and shadows.  
Davryan met her on the other side, and signed that they should remove their water-weighted cloaks so they would not hinder their mobility in combat. “We attack once the patrols sound the alarm bells.” He whispered carefully, his eyes on the heavy, iron-sheathed door of the inner garrison, waiting for the first soldiers to burst out at the sound of alarm.  
The silence of night was shattered by the urgent tolling of the bell located on the other side of the settlement, and its first peals came so suddenly Dream felt her skin jump nervously. The heavy door crashed outwards as a score of armed soldiers burst from the barracks, most tottering from their previous hours of drinking and carousing and only half-armoured. Davryan swept out his sword and sprang forward with the cry, “For the Oath!”  
The Aradomorian soldiers halted in bewildered confusion, and then realizing that they were under attack, scrambled blindly for their weapons. The first few were cut down in seconds, but the rest succeeded in drawing their swords and defending themselves. Dream parried a wide slash from one soldier, and as he stumbled back exposing his entire front, she instinctively plunged her sword forward. In the blur and momentum around her, she was barely conscious of the blood that splashed across her front and arms.  
Her companions fought to her left and right, and outside the walls of the garrison came the shouts and cries of the townspeople as they harried the patrols. Lights sprang up over the town as the inhabitants were aroused. Most joined the fight eagerly, having been prepared beforehand. But the nobles took one look into the churning streets, grabbed what valuables they could and slipped out back doors and over low walls, trying to escape. Their slaves, seeing their masters flee in such an undignified fashion, threw off their chains and flung open the doors of the wealthy estates.  
More soldiers, alerted by the sounds of combat, poured into the garrison courtyard, this time more orderly and ready for battle. An arrow hissed close by Dream, and she felt the head rip past her upper right arm. Ignoring the pain and focusing rather on her countless lessons under Kyzeinac and Ethryder, she rolled beneath the blade of one soldier, her sword slashing across his legs. As he fell with a howl of pain, she scrambled up and her blade cut deep into his throat. She turned, in time to see Vjelka behead an Aradomorian soldier with one, precise blow of her greatsword.  
The fighting continued. Telrona, with the jubilant townspeople at her heels, swung open the main gates, and the inhabitants surged forward, brandishing their arms and raising shouts of panic from the soldiers. They tried to flee, but were quickly overtaken and killed by the over-zealous citizens. No soldier escaped that night to tell the tale.  
“Our town is free!” the people shouted, despite the rain and the mess around them. They waved their weapons into the air eagerly, slapping each other on the back and already beginning to tear down the banners of Aradomoria that hung over the walls. “Down with Ostor the Boar! In their excitement, they clustered around the Oath, hailing every one of them as champions.  
Dream glanced down, and realized how filthy she was after the battle. Reeking of sweat, blood, and dampness, her surcoat was torn and splashed over and over with crimson stains of blood and darker smears of dirt. Her hand and fingers felt forged to her swordhilt, and her right arm ached dully where the arrow had grazed her. She glanced around at her companions, all just as blood-covered and dirty as her, and was relieved to discover that none of them seemed seriously injured.  
The slaves, freed from their long captivity, surged from their hovels despite the harsh, unbearable conditions they had suffered under. The townspeople, most of them commoners and thus almost slaves themselves to the higher classes, immediately set about finding lodging for them all and providing food and clothes and blankets to make them comfortable for the remainder of the night.  
Meanwhile, Davryan had taken control of the situation in the barracks while the people saw to the slaves and routed out the nobles as they tried to escape the town with their precious wealth. The bodies of the Aradomorian were piled up on wagons and carts, and covered with stiff burlap to keep the carrion from them; they would be buried outside of town in the morning. The courtyard was sleek with blood, and inside all was in chaos as the soldiers had hastily left their drunken brawling and other rowdy activities to answer the alarm.  
“Wash the blood from the pavement, and push the carts into the corner till the morning.” Davryan ordered, before heading inside to make some order out of the turmoil in the barracks. Kyzeinac followed him, but Ethryder remained outside to keep everyone busy.  
He directed G’hornad and Ethran to haul water from the cistern, and sent Dream and Kai’Ryna for buckets. Telrona was busy among the people, locating her main contacts among them and overseeing the relief of the former slaves, many of which were sickly and weak, while all were undernourished and emaciated. Inside the barracks, Talrosas and Narr-Dok cleared away the empty kegs and over-turned barrels, allowing enough room for someone to actually walk around without stumbling over something every step. Vjelka and Talrukas, at Davryan’s request, threw out all the bed linen, which smelt like it hadn’t known the touch of soap and water for the last generation, and tried to find bunks that looked, and smelt, reasonably clean. Davryan and Kyzeinac inspected the garrison captain’s rooms, and found them in little better condition from the rest of the place.  
“You’d think they would have slaves to keep the place clean like the nobles do.” Davryan observed, after they had released several young, terrified girls, probably the captain’s personal bed-slaves, and sent them out with assurances that they were safe now. “Phew! This place smells awful!” He looked around distastefully, and almost lunged for the windows, throwing them open to let in the damp night air. Rain found its way inside too, but for now they didn’t really care.  
Kyzeinac sniffed, “Aradomorians seem to lack more than just honour and loyalty – this place stinks of no discipline and worse.”  
“I think I’d rather sleep in the stables then in here.” Davryan commented, eying the captain’s bed with disgust.  
Vjelka came to the door, waving her hands as if to ward off the smell. “Even worse in here!” she coughed. “Captain, Talrukas and I have scoured the bunks thoroughly; I’m afraid there will be no sleep for any of us until we get the place properly cleaned.” She stated firmly. “This place would be better to breed disease then house even the worst of men.”  
“Ha, there’ll be no sleep till we get ourselves cleaned up, let alone this place.” Davryan replied, indicating their sweaty, filthy appearances. “We’ll work more in the morning, right now I want a bath and a clean surcoat.”  
Vjelka nodded, “I hear Telrona has seen to that, although the clean clothes might have to wait till the morning.”  
The rich estates of the nobles had been searched thoroughly to ensure the wealthy inhabitants were not lurking inside, and the townspeople had housed the slaves in them quite comfortably. But they had left the governor’s mansion for Davryan and his companions as a special sign of appreciation, and women of the town had warm water heated and waiting by the time the Oath stumbled in from the barracks at around midnight.  
Dream was so tired and tripping over her own feet, that she was only half-conscious of kind, soft-voiced women guiding her to one of the guest chambers and stripping her out of her blood-stiffening surcoat and damp clothes beneath. Removing her mask and hood, they bathed her down with cloths soaked in warm, sweet-smelling water, and cleaned her arm wound; smearing it with a herb poultice and binding it with soft linen strips. Once she was clean, they guided her to the bed, where the sheets were thrown back in readiness, and saw to it that she was made as comfortable as possible before tidying the room and quietly slipping out.


	15. Chapter 15

Shafts of early sunlight were streaming in through the lace-curtained windows when Dream opened her eyes the next morning. She blinked her dark eyes at the fine furnishings around her, and for several minutes stared at them in utter confusion. A sharp twinge in her right arm as she raised herself on one elbow brought the events of last night flooding through her mind, and she faintly recalled being led here by several women who had seen to her bath.  
Her dark hair, the colour of deepest burgundy, fell in long straight locks down her bare shoulders as she squinted at the light from her windows, wondering how late or early in the morning it was. She turned at the knock on her door, “Who is it?”  
“It’s me, Dream.” A familiar voice replied softly. “May I come in?”  
“Jarlai? Why yes, of course.” Dream replied without hesitation. She smiled welcomingly as the Aradomorian stepped in with a bundle under one arm. “How did you get here?”  
Jarlai laughed lightly as she closed the door behind her and came to the bed. Her lake-blue eyes smiled at Dream, “Davryan sent a wagon to the inn for me and Reorren a few hours ago. Most of the others are already up, but the Captain said you did very well last night and needed the rest.” She loosened the bundle she carried as she spoke. “I brought you some clean clothes…your ones from last night will need a good scrubbing.”  
“I’m not sure they’ll ever get clean again, they were rather filthy.” Dream replied with a frown, swinging her legs down and reaching for the clothes Jarlai had laid out within reach.  
“We’ll see,” Jarlai answered dismissively, walking to the window and leaning her elbows against the sill as she gazed over the town. “This place is beautiful!” she gasped in pleasant tones, her eyes shining. “It’s been so long since I’ve been in a town before; I’ve forgotten how much I love the trees growing along the streets.” She added wistfully.  
Dream slipped from bed, pulling her inner tunic into place and ducking her head and shoulders into a fresh surcoat, marked with the sign of the Oath. She buckled her swordbelt around her waist and then paused as she began to fasten the leather ties of her surcoat. She gazed at Jarlai, “Were you lonely at the inn last night?” she asked suddenly.  
“Not really,” she admitted slowly, not turning to her. “But it was awkward being alone up there, watching Reorren.” Her voice grew tight, as if she was trying to contain herself, and her eyes grew misty. “I had to watch as he tossed and groaned in his sleep, and endure his cold, distrustful eyes when he was awake, glaring at me. He hates me, Dream, hates me so much!” She broke into quiet sobbing, burying her head in her arms.  
Alarmed and surprised, Dream quickly crossed to her side. “Why Jarlai, how can you be so certain?” she asked gently, rubbing the weeping girl’s shoulders in sympathy. “Surely he can’t hate you.”  
“No, I saw it, I know what it looks like; the hatred a slave bears to his master.” Jarlai managed to say between sobs. “I’ve seen it so many times in the past, I can never forget that look. Never!” She looked at Dream with eyes brimming with not just tears, but a deep, hurting anguish. “I’ve tried so hard, so hard to gain the trust of the Oath; why does he reject it? Even G’hornad, for all his arrogance, seems to trust me, at least a little.”  
Dream stared absently out the window, “I don’t know, Jarlai. I probably know less about him than you do.”  
“I’ve tried to talk to him, to ask him why he refuses to trust me.” Jarlai went on almost despairingly, raising her head. The sunlight shone down on her tears, making them sparkle like liquid diamonds. “Every time, he just walked away…as if he hadn’t heard, as if I wasn’t there.”  
Dream wished with all her heart there was something she could do to make Jarlai feel better, but she could only hold her in silent comfort. With a long-drawn, shuddering sigh, Jarlai forced herself to calm down. Wiping her eyes, she shook her head. “I shouldn’t be worrying you about this. Are you hungry? There’s still plenty of breakfast left over from the others.”  
“Breakfast?” Dream repeated with relish. “My stomach feels like an empty void right now, not sure if I could hold anything down.”  
Jarlai grinned as she swung open the door. “Let’s see, shall we?” she invited, leading the way down lavishly carpeted halls hung with dyed silk tapestries and marble steps that curved down to the first floor with the graceful arch of a swan’s neck. Vjelka met them as they entered the banquet hall where the others had dined earlier that morning.  
“Dream, good morning to you; I trust you slept well?” she asked congenially. “I heard you were injured last night.”  
“Really?” Jarlai gasped, glancing from the stout Amateuthian to Dream. “Is it bad?”  
Waving off their concern, Dream headed for the table, the demands of her stomach no longer content in remaining unheard. “It was a light graze, nothing to fuss over.” She replied indifferently, her mind more intent on breakfasting then discussing such a petty matter.  
“Good,” Vjelka announced, rubbing her hands together briskly. “Because there is much work to be done reorganizing the town; most of us have been already seeing to that for the last few hours.” She added the last bit with almost a taunting smile.  
“I never asked to be given the unnecessary luxury of sleeping in.” Dream retorted between gulps of creamy porridge and fresh milk.  
Vjelka held up both hands, “None of us grudge you that – it was on Davryan’s orders after all.”  
“I worked no harder last night then the rest of you.” Dream replied, stuffing a whole boiled egg into her mouth while Jarlai looked on with unfeigned horror.  
“Dream!” she cried, exasperated. “You’re not a starved dog!”  
The Blaideish girl blinked at her in surprise. “What? I’m close enough to being starved, the way my stomach is groaning.” With a sigh of forced will, she very slowly picked a sweet bun from the platter and daintily nibbled the corner. “Is this better to your liking?” she asked, her eyes dancing teasingly.  
Jarlai had to smile, “I guess for this once you can eat like an unmannered savage…if you’re sure you can’t survive without bolting everything down as if you were famished.”  
“As I was saying, ladies,” Vjelka continued sternly, “there is a lot of clean-up to do around the barracks. The townspeople have stated that they will be in charge of reorganizing the town, finding homes for the many released slaves, burying the dead, and sorting through the wealth left by the nobles. But since the barracks will be our headquarters and residence, it falls rightly on our shoulders to see it brought to decent living conditions. Understand?” She rounded out her short speech with a sharp scrutiny at both Jarlai and Dream as if giving orders to knights just out of training.  
“Yes ma’am!” Dream drained the last drops from her cup and sprang from the bench. “Where do I start?”  
“Talrosas and Ethran are working in the stables, so Davryan has given me full rein over the interior of the garrison.” The Amateuthian woman replied, motioning them both to follow her through the main doors outside. “We need new straw for the bunk mattresses; Fhergys said he’d be willing to give us all we needed in return for fresh supplies of flour and grain. So,” she stopped before two sturdy wagons harnessed up to mules. “that’s what you’ll be doing.”  
Jarlai eyed the heavy sacks stacked in neat layers in the wagons with rather dubious glances. “And…we’re supposed to carry those?” she ventured in a tone that implied she thought it utterly impossible for Vjelka to expect that of her, and that the knight should already know that herself.  
Vjelka made an amused sound in her throat. “No, of course not; Narr-Dok will be accompanying you. He seemed to prefer that since the townspeople here think he’s a drazil, but that is only because they have never seen one before.” She explained patiently. “Here he comes now.”  
Dream looked up from gingerly massaging her injured arm, and was somewhat surprised to see Reorren’s foxling capering after the tip of his tail. “How did you get her to follow you so willingly?” she asked in wonder, “Before, she would never leave Reorren’s side.”  
“My race has a way with the creatures of SwordSoul.” The Tor-Xiith replied easily, glancing down at the black fox briefly before bringing his deep green eyes back to Dream. “Perhaps she is lonely for her master.” He directed his attention to the loaded wagons. “If you are ready, we can set out immediately for the inn.”

“Captain?” Kyzeinac’s low, guarded voice followed by a nudge made Davryan look up with a frown of broken concentration, and he glanced at his second-in-command questioningly. He had been going over the town records with several of the more knowledgeable men of the town, and the unexpected disturbance had scattered his thoughts most inconveniently. But the Tethdorian, undaunted by his obvious annoyance, pursued his current course. “I need a word with you – in private.” He flicked his yellow eyes at the other men briefly before bringing them back to Davryan urgingly.  
“Is this important?” Davryan inquired slowly, lowering the sheaf of documents he was holding reluctantly. “I’m rather occupied at the moment.”  
Kyzeinac stared at him in silence, till Davryan began to feel slightly intimidated by the eerie, unblinking gaze directed straight at him. “If it wasn’t important, Captain, I would have handled it myself.” He pointed out quietly in a tone that implied Davryan should have considered that himself before asking such an obvious question.  
Stamping down on the sigh that wanted to push up, Davryan laid the papers down, and with a quick apology to the townsmen, followed Kyzeinac to a corner of the barracks where they could talk without being overheard. “What is the problem?” he asked, trying hard not to show his impatience in his tone.  
“There’s a stranger in town.” Kyzeinac began calmly, sensing his leader’s irritation and doing his best to not aggravate it further. But sadly, Tethdorians, despite their strong sense of honour and unquestioned fearlessness in the face of battle, fail quite infamously in subtilty.  
Davryan’s brow went down. “A stranger? I shouldn’t think that was so important; strangers pass through towns rather frequently. Why should I be concerned about this one in particular?”  
Kyzeinac paused, and realized he had started off without saying enough. He eyed Davryan, weighing his patience with the knowledge that with so much suddenly brought upon his shoulders, the naturally concerned and patient young captain was wearing down under the pressure. “He’s asking around for you, Davryan.” He went straight to the heart of his business.  
“Asking for me?” Davryan suddenly started to listen. “Why?”  
“I don’t know, that why I brought the matter directly to you.” Kyzeinac replied stoically. “He knows you, strangely, and wants to meet with you – alone.”  
Davryan frowned, then looked straight into Kyzeinac’s eyes. “Do you think that’s wise? For me to meet with a stranger alone, a stranger who knows my name?” he asked gravely.  
Kyzeinac paused in his answer; if the stranger was asking for such terms with him, he would go without question. But Davryan, he considered to himself without any thoughts of being disrespectful, was not like him or other Tethdorians; he had not been raised in their culture like he had been. He did not, frankly, know how to be a true Tethdorian. Yet it never crossed Kyzeinac’s mind to say anything else. “Captain, if it was me he was asking for, I would go.” He replied firmly.  
“I know you would.” Davryan assured him. He sighed and looked down, “But I don’t know if I could be that willingly. I’m not like you, Kye, I…I don’t have an identity to draw back on.” He admitted with more effort than he’d thought it would take.  
“Only because…you haven’t found it yet.” Kyzeinac answered with faint traces of harshness and reproach in his tone. “If you were of another race, like the Amateuthians or the Vakaric, I could understand…a little. But you aren’t; you are Tethdorian. Just because you have never seen the white mountains or the silver lakes by moonlight, or heard the howl of the wolf at midnight, or been to the halls of the Tethdor, or felt the weight of a duskrite blade in your grip; all that is not what makes us who we are.” He laid his hand against Davryan’s chest while searching his lynx-grey eyes keenly. “It’s our blood, our hearts, our very souls that shape us, our thoughts and actions that forge us.”  
Davryan thought for several minutes, then took a deep breath. “Where does he want to meet me?” he asked at length.  
The Twin-Moon Haven was one of the smaller, less-frequented inns in Banrheig, and located near the northern edge of the town. At this late hour, when most folks had done their day’s work and were at home in bed, the only person left that Davryan could see as he stepped in with misgiving, was the short, burly innkeeper slouched over the counter snoring softly. But as he shut the door, a dark figure detached itself from the shadows near the glowering hearth and came forward.  
“Davryan of the Oath,” a deep, grim voice stated rather then asked from the depths of a low-hanging hood. “I’ve been searching for you for many weeks now.”  
Davryan did his best to maintain a straight, noncommittal expression as he scrutinized the tall cloaked man before him. “I heard you were looking for me.” He said simply with a slight nod. “For what purpose?”  
The stranger indicated to a table near the back, and they sat down, eying each other cautiously like strange dogs who have met on the road and now wait for each other to bare their fangs. He drew back his masked hood, and Davryan found himself looking upon a face he knew from first glance had seen much death and blood for many years. Cold eerie golden eyes stared at him from a narrow, well-tanned face, watching his every move, every slight twinge of his expression, and they narrowed down to almost inconceivable slits as he began to speak.  
“To be plain, Davryan, I have heard of the faction, this Oath, that you lead, and it interests me greatly.” He lifted his legs and crossed them over his edge of the table, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “I have heard tales of those who tried to bring light to this forsaken realm, and were brutally suppressed. I am curious…to see if you will follow them in failing, or actually be the one who turns this kingdom around for the better.” He cocked his head to one side, his eyes never leaving the Tethdorian’s face. “I’ve hunted you down, not to kill you as you may have feared, but to offer you my blades.”  
Davryan blinked, and momentary surprise broke upon his features quicker than he could draw it back in. “You wish to join the Oath? Do you know what that demands; complete sacrifice of your former life and utter devotion to reforming Aradomoria, no matter the price?”  
The stranger smiled; a queer, sad smile. “I’ve had no life before this.”  
“Everyone has a life,” Davryan countered sharply. “it’s whether they want to admit it or not. A thief may say he has no life either, but then why is he a thief? A king may say he has no life simply because he cannot be free to do as he desires, yet his life centres around seeing to the needs of his people.”  
“True,” the stranger replied with a slow nod. “Would you prefer I said, that I had no life worthy of mention before this?”  
Davryan considered him silently for a while. “How did you come to know of us?”  
“I have my sources, and people will talk freely of matters best left spoken of in secret when they think no one is near to hear.” Came the elusive reply. “I know how to use what resources I have to accomplish my means.” He leaned forward, his eyes intense and unflinching. “Davryan, Ostor will hear of your victory here, and he will send soldiers to silence you and your little band, and root out all the others scattered throughout Aradomoria.”  
Davryan started, “How-”  
“People talk.” The stranger replied with amusement creeping through his voice. “If you require proof of my honesty, my loyalty, you have but to put me to the test.” He settled back in his chair. “But you are short on men at this point, and even the Aradomorians will move fast when they feel their fragile security is threatened from the inside.”  
Davryan shook his head, “I trust your word, stranger. And yes, I am short on men, and a great deal of other things.”  
“But not trust, it seems.” The man noted slowly.  
“Trust is a stranger to these lands, few know what it embodies.” The Oath leader replied regretfully. “But I’ve started this war with Ostor, and trust is a valued virtue.”  
The stranger looked at him with a queer expression. “The Aradomorians began this war, Davryan, you are only continuing it; you are the first to challenge them in many years.” He seemed ready to close the discussion, but paused. “And as for my name, just call me Kor’Dyran, that will do.”


	16. Chapter 16

Lithandre felt a hand press against her chest, and she staggered back, falling to the floor. With eyes still tingling from the chilling gaze of the drazil, she glanced up in surprise to see Kisaye standing before the Darh’meir, her twin blades running with their venomously-green blood. Two of the drazil swayed, choked hisses crawling up their slit throats as they fell in writhing, slashing coils to the ground. The others turned to her with icy hatred burning in their eyes, and one bared its fangs defiantly.  
Kisaye did not wait for them to surround her; she lunged straight into their midst while Lithandre watched in horror. She expected the Knight Commander to be overwhelmed just as Rinara had been, but slowly her dread gave way to awe as the drazil one by one fell back with twisted, hacked corpses. Their own futile swings at Kisaye were in vain as she eluded every move, swiftly following it up with her own before they had a chance to recover. When the last Darh’meir body fell squirming to the floor, spurting blood from numerous, closely-woven slashes across its torso, Kisaye stepped back and her glance stretched beyond Lithandre to Rinara’s inert form.  
“Your Highness, are you alright?” she inquired, stepping forward.  
Lithandre fully expected Kisaye to come and help her up, but the knight strode right past her towards the bodyguard. Pulling herself up with a sniff of disdain, she glanced down at herself, and felt as if her stomach had suddenly caved in on itself, leaving a yawning void in its place. Drazil blood had splashed across the front of her tunic, and the very sight made her want to retch in the closest corner. She felt very undignified, and Kisaye’s seeming indifference brought back all her arrogance. “Why yes, I’m fine!” she snapped, flinging back a loose lock of her dark hair with one hand. “I did just come very close to being slaughtered by those things; a fine escort my father has provided me with, very fine indeed!”  
Kisaye, who had knelt by Rinara’s body, turned her head slightly, and Lithandre saw her eyes glint through the eye-slits of her helm. “Are you blind, girl?” she asked sternly.  
“How dare you insult me!” the princess retorted.  
“Silence!” Kisaye shouted back, rising to her feet and facing Lithandre. “Yes, your escort is fine, one of the best. Rinara just gave her life for you a few minutes ago, and this is all the gratitude you have?? Every knight out there right now, fighting the drazil and Dred’Cath – they’re not just fighting because it’s their duty; they’re fighting to protect you!”  
Lithandre gasped, taken aback. She had never, ever heard Kisaye raise her voice like this before, but neither had she ever spoken to her like this. “You’re just like Tescar!” she almost screamed, all her arrogance and self-pity mustering in one breath. “I never asked for any of this. I never asked Rinara to die!”  
“No, you didn’t; she offered willingly.” Kisaye agreed, her tone still sharp with stinging rebuke. “Sacrifice is something you’ll never understand if you continue to be such a selfish, self-centred person.” She spun on her heels and marched down the hall towards the doors, her mailed skirts jingling around her armour-clad legs. At the door she stopped, and glared back at Lithandre, who was staring after her in speechless trepidation. “Well, are you going to stand there waiting for more drazil to come, or follow me?” Kisaye came very close to losing her own temper.  
The princess paused, “You’re just going to leave her here?” she pointed her chin at Rinara’s corpse almost accusingly. “After that fancy speech you made?”  
Kisaye honestly felt like slapping the girl, but she restrained herself and forcing her voice to remain neutral, replied. “The battle is still raging outside, your Highness, and the citadel in peril. If we stop to tend our dead now, we’ll all be corpses alongside them. Now come!” she ordered imperiously.

The walls shook again and again as the Dred’Cath rained boulders against the so-far impervious stone of the inner wall that encircled the citadel and most of the vital buildings like the armoury, forge, storehouses and stables. The siege had stretched on for weeks now, and neither side showed any signs of giving up; on the contrary, their efforts only seemed to double. The outer walls lay in ruins, and most of the garrison who still remained alive had been forced to withdraw into the inner wall, but small groups still held out on the outer walls, mainly in the ballista towers.  
War Marshal Sever glared at the map, as if it was the map’s fault that the siege had dragged on for so long. He tore at the hunk of bread in one hand, still eyeing the smooth, detailed leather as if it was his worst enemy.  
“Stare at it any longer and you might succeed in burning holes through it.” Kisaye commented, her slender form gracing the doorway.  
He looked up, not having heard her come in. “Well maybe then I’ll figure out a way to break their lines.” He replied, inviting her to come in.  
“A Tethdorian…floundering for a battle plan?” she answered, a slight tease in her tone as she came to glance at the map over his arm. “What are you thinking?”  
Sever sighed, “I can break the Dred’Cath lines easily with a sortie of knights, but then the drazil are a problem.”  
Kisaye looked up as Tescar, followed by Sever’s Knight Commanders, stepped into the room. “What if we send out two sorties…box them in so they can’t escape or very well retaliate.” She suggested with a slight frown. “Would that work?”  
“If we timed it right…possibly.” Tescar nodded.  
Sever leaned closer over the map, “If we have one body came from the south gate, and the other by the west, we’ll have the surprise and momentum to drive them from our walls, and even route their forces in the field if all goes well.” He tossed his bread back onto the table. “Commander Atuuran,” he ordered briskly, snatching up his helmet. “ready your men and my personal knights.”  
“You’re not thinking of leading the charge in person are you, sir?” Atuuran almost choked on his words.  
“Of course I am!” Sever countered. “Did you think I was too old to keep my saddle, or maybe that my arms don’t have the strength to hold a lance anymore?” he asked, eyeing the knight keenly.  
Atuuran shifted his position uncomfortably. “Uh…no, my lord.” He saluted and hurried from the room.  
“You Amateuthians under-estimate us Tethdorians too much.” Sever grumbled as he rolled up his map. “Why, my father could still lead a charge against the Blaideish when they invaded Tethdoria during Sateinak’s vile reign, and he was past his eightieth winter!”  
Tescar smiled slightly, “You lectured me on that tale many times during my service here, Sever.” He reminded him. “But Amateuthians are not Tethdorians, and I’m glad they aren’t; one stubborn race is more than enough for us to handle on a daily basis.”  
“Oh, aren’t they?” Sever raised an eyebrow and looked to Kisaye, who was trying hard not to show her amusement openly. “Well then, maybe it’s been too long since you saw your wife fight.” He hinted.  
“I’m aware of her skills.” Tescar replied evenly. “But the majority of Amateuthians are not raised by Tethdorians.” He pointed out.  
The War Marshal snorted as he strode for the hall, “Maybe they should be!” Humour laced his stern tones as he threw his parting remark over his shoulder.  
Tescar shook his head after his old mentor, and turned as Kisaye drew her arms around his shoulders. “Sever wants me to command the second sortie.” He told her gently, his arms around her waist. “He wanted me to have you by my side…but I think it would be better if you stayed here to protect Lithandre and oversee the knights who remain.”  
She looked up at him trustingly, but with slight fear glimmering in her cyan eyes as her fingers traced one scar down his chin. “Are you sure?”  
He nodded, his eyes vacant. “If I don’t make it, it’s my responsibility to ensure the princess will still have a strong escort.”  
Tears welled up in Kisaye’s eyes, and she looked down. “Don’t say that…please.” She begged, searching his eyes intensely. “If you think it’s going to be that bad, than I should go with you.”  
“No.” Tescar shook his head, his tone adamant. “Please Kisaye, if we both go and we both…die, Lithandre will be unprotected. One of us…must survive.”  
She nodded, “That’s true…but, but at least,” she leaned her head against his chest, hiding her stricken expression. “Promise me, you’ll be carefull?”  
He kissed her bronze hair, “I promise you that, Kisaye, I will be careful, and I will come back.”  
Consoled by his promise and the firm pressure of his arms around her, Kisaye regained her composure, stepped back and smiled bravely. “Go then, my Tescar, go and show those drazil what happens when they cross the Warfront and assault these sacred walls.”  
“I will.” He nodded.

King Ostor of Aradomoria lounged in his royal quarters, propped up on so many silk-laced cushions he felt like he was in his bed and not holding council with his bickering nobles, each as crafty and scheming as the other. He sucked lazily on a grape, rolling it around in his mouth and wondering absently whether he should have his new tunics done in blue or yellow, and should they be embroidered or trimmed with fur. It was only when one of his nobles slammed his fist on the table, upsetting the flagon of wine and spilling the contents across the table that Ostor brought his mind back to the present with a loud sigh of complete indifference and boredom.  
“What a waste of good wine!” he exclaimed, vexed as he watched the deep crimson liquid drip to the marbled floor. The lords gaped at him, disgust and contempt plain on many of their expressions. “Yes,” he continued, selecting a daintily-iced tart from his sideboard and biting into it luxuriously, “I don’t care for your petty arguments if they prove to be a loss for me…that wine cost me a fortune.”  
A baron from among the nobles smirked, “Your Majesty would do well to remember that it is our support that keeps you on the throne, and it is to your continued benefit that you hear our ‘petty argument’.” He pointed out with sarcastic warning in his tone.  
Ostor felt the colour rising in his face, and yet was forced to admit to himself that the baron was right; if he lost their support, others seeking the throne would be quick to exploit that weakness. He tried to look genuinely concerned as he leaned forward. “What is the problem again?” he inquired with a wave of one hand, signalling a slave nearby to refill his goblet.  
“The Baron of Alsiich has made raids into the royal duchy of Grefenn.” One of his lords replied indignantly, possibly because he was responsible for that holding and thus fearful of losing his lucrative position. “Despite my remonstrations with him, he continues, and your Majesty has lost over ten thousand gold denars over the past three months.”  
“He raids my lands too!” another interrupted.  
“And mine – I’m near to being beggared because of him!” someone else interposed impatiently. “You must silence him; his lands would benefit the crown in many ways, and repay us for the losses we’ve suffered.”  
Ostor squirmed in his ornate chair; although murder was how he had acquirred the throne and silenced several strong claimants, he had always turned to one of his supporters to actually see the deed performed. “Well if that’s the answer, why haven’t one of you done him in already?” he asked with increduility, taking his goblet from the slave and glaring at him as a few drops slopped over the rim.  
“He’s a powerful baron, and a strong supporter of your current rival.” came the obvious-sounding reply.  
Before anyone else could answer, the door burst open and a breathless page stumbled into the room, waving a rolled piece of parchment in one hand. “Your Majesty!” he panted, quickly dropping to his knees when he realized he had broken in on an important council. “Forgive me Sire, but an urgent message has arrived by courier.”  
“Another matter of importance?!” Ostor grumbled angrily, “And what is it this time?” he snatched away the missive, unrolled it and impatiently scanned the contents. Suddenly, he blanched, then his features grew dark. “Of all the nerve those pestilential slaves have!” he shouted, very much vexed, throwing the message to the table. “They dare revolt against their masters!”  
The nobles, murmuring in low voices, proceeded to examine the letter for themselves. “Banrheig…has been captured?” they gasped in disbelief.  
“Yes, and by our slaves no less.” Ostor muttered sullenly. He sprang from his chair, scattered cushions and spilling his goblet of wine. “I won’t stand for this! We must crush this insurgence before word of it gets out to the throne rivals; they’d see it as a weakness on our part.” He stalked out the room, shouting for his nobles to convene a council of war.


	17. Chapter 17

When the Knights broke upon the front and rear of the Dred’Cath, their enemies were thrown into panic as they vainly tried to avoid the deadly lances that mowed them down as they tried to flee or regroup. The Darh’meir drazil; their minds consumed with hatred for the Knights, charged blindly at them, and were consequently trampled down by the massive hooves of the warhorses. Yet a few managed to slither their way among the Knights, jabbing at them with their scythe-like spears, and unhorsing several before they could drop their lances and draw out their swords.  
But the sortie on both flanks had achieved its purpose; the Dred’Cath siege was broken, and the Knights set fire to their engines while others rode down the scattered groups of drazil and Dred’Cath who fled the battlefield. Sever and Tescar drew their horses alongside each other as they surveyed the rubble and debris surrounding multiple breaches in the blackened, scarred walls.  
“It’ll take time to repair,” the War Marshal nodded at the ruined sections. “but we held them back despite their numbers, and now they flee.” He pointed with his sword across the field to where a small knot of Dred’Cath ran with all their might to escape the thundering hooves behind them.  
Tescar watched the Knights crush them with the brute strength of their steeds, then turned to Sever. “Indeed; had we not been able to push them back, Amateuth might have seen another Dawnless War.” He leaned his lance against one knee and gazed at the inner keep, remembering what had brought him back to the Warfront. “About that scout we needed…”  
“Ah yes,” Sever nodded, somewhat reluctantly. He urged his horse towards the fortress gates, “I am somewhat short on scouts; the drazil take many of them, and others disappear without trace, never returning. But for the King’s business, I can always give men.”  
Tescar rode slowly at his side, “Is Ethryder Silvercrow still here?”  
“No,” the War Marshal shook his head, “One of my best scouts…yet he disappeared during a scouting mission over a year ago now. I have not found any trace of him – nor do I expect to.” He added grimly. “The drazil do terrible things to their prisoners.” Just before riding under the gate arch, he stopped his horse and sat in thought for a bit. “He was a good man, and one of my best Knights.” He reflected slowly. “I find it hard to believe such a skilled warrior should fall so easily to those beasts.”  
Tescar eyed him closely, “You’re not one to dwell on the past, Sever.” He observed intently. “You wouldn’t be saying this unless you intended to do something about it.”  
“Hardly anything I could do, with my place being here.” Sever replied shortly, but he turned to Tescar. “There is though, something you can do for me.” He hinted.  
“What?”  
“You’re going through the Black Marshes; the heart of the drazil territory, I want you to keep an eye out for any signs of my missing scouts.” The War Marshal answered firmly. “I would do it myself, but…” his eyes strayed once again to the ruined walls and the Knights moving amid the rubble as they returned from the battlefield.  
Tescar gripped his shoulder, “Sever, I will look, you have my word on that.”  
“And you have my deepest thanks.” Sever replied with a slight dip of his head. “It’s a hard burden to bear, losing men under your command without any knowledge of what their fate might have been, or if they may yet be alive somewhere.” He gathered up his reins, “One day, you’ll realize this too.” He rode into the corpse-littered courtyard and swung from the saddle as Atuuran approached. “Have the drazil and Dred’Cath bodies burned far from these walls.” He ordered, handing his lance and helm to an attending Knight by his side. “And send for Captain Nedarik.”  
Atuuran nodded, ready to follow out with his lord’s orders, but at Sever’s last request, he paused. “Nedarik was wounded during the siege, sir.” He reported hesitantly.  
“He was?” Sever glanced at him sharply. “How serious is it?”  
“He won’t be up and about for several weeks at least.”  
Sever nodded, “I see, well carry on then.” He stood in contemplation, while Tescar waited nearby after dismounting stiffly from the saddle. Dull pain stabbed up his side, but seeing Kisaye run from the citadel, he ignored it for the moment as she fell into his arms. She didn’t say anything, but the look in her eyes and the pressure of her arms around him spoke more feeling then any words could convey.  
“I can still send a scout with you.” Sever said slowly, “But he’s still young and lacking in full training. He might be better to you then Nedarik though.” He added after consideration.  
“Why is that?” Tescar replied over Kisaye’s head.  
Sever smiled queerly, “He’s a cypher.” He turned to one of his attending Knights, “Call Tarthol here.” He ordered before directing his attention back to Tescar.  
“A cypher?”  
“A map-cypher to be more exact.” Sever nodded in a pleased voice. “Such a gift is considered rare; he can look at a map of any region and see things you or I could not, like secret paths and the like.”  
The Knight returned, accompanied by a young warrior clearly of Tethdorian blood; from his sable hair and eerie yellow eyes to his lean, passive features that hid the fires of war burning in his heart. The War Marshal gave him a favoured nod, and turned to Tescar, “This is Tarthol Duskraven; he will be your guide through the Black Marshes and remain by your side till your mission has been completed.”  
Preparations for their departure were swiftly readied. Their horses would remain in the fortress under the care of the Knights, and supplies, such as they would need for the journey, they carried in packs with them. Lithandre made a great fuss over this. “I’m the princess, not some serving wench!” she protested with all her might.  
“On this journey, you are an outcast heir to a throne you little deserve and know even less about.” Tescar reminded her sternly. “Many factions seek your blood, and not all seek it in kindness, thus you are to hide who you really are, much like the rest of us.”  
Rinara was laid to rest in the crypts beneath the fortress, besides the tomb that contained all the earthly remains of her departed father. After paying their respects – though Lithandre refused to enter the crypts – they shouldered their packs and began the next lap of their journey. Amateuth now lay behind them, the Black Marshes beyond the Warfront stretched before them, and the despised kingdom of Aradomoria beyond that.

Lithandre swatted desperately at the insects that insisted on swarming around her while carrying on their high-pitched droning, and felt the queasy feeling in her stomach only grow every time she heard the soft, moist mud of the swamp squelch beneath her every step. She hated this place! The humid atmosphere was stifling; she longed for fresh air, and her boots and legs, along with the hem of her tunic, were soaked with slimy marsh water. She was sure her hair was a mess, and in need of several thorough washes with the strongest scents she could think of. In fact, she was quite sure she needed many long soaks in a hot bath before all the filth from this horrible place had been washed off.  
“How long do we need to trudge through this Maker-forsaken bog?” she demanded irritably, swinging her hand so forcefully at a bug that she hit the protruding root of a giant mangrove tree.  
Tarthol, their guide from the Warfront, trudging at the lead of the small group, glanced back at her questioningly. “What do you mean? We’ve only be here two days…the Black Marshes stretch for many leagues, it’ll take us several weeks to reach Fathrenor.” He replied casually.  
“Wonderful!” Lithandre muttered darkly. She had never even heard of Fathrenor, but had no wish to display her ignorance before the boy.  
But Aerohn wasn’t so haughty, and with curiousity vivid in his eyes, he turned to the guide. “What land is that?”  
“It’s a small region between Aradomoria and the Warfront, uninhabited by the races of the Alliance of Crowns.” Tarthol replied, stepping carefully over a gnarled root, his eyes never leaving the ground. “But people do live there, they just keep to themselves, and not in cities like you would think.”  
“Are they friendly?” Aerohn inquired.  
The young Tethdorian shrugged, “Don’t know, I’ve never been there, never seen them. I just know because I listen to the other scouts talking about it.” He explained, kneeling to examine the murky shallows.  
“How in SwordSoul can you guide us through a place you’ve never been to?” Lithandre burst out vehemently, forgetting Tarthol’s warning when they had first come here two days ago to be as quiet as possible to avoid being heard by drazil.  
“Quiet!” Kareth, who guarded their rear, commanded in low, measured tones, his eyes scanning the mangroves for movement. For several tense minutes, the group waited to see if their position had been given away. But the swamp lay in silence; other than the passing of a marsh crow, nothing else stirred, and they breathed easily again. But Tescar swung a stern glance to Lithandre, and here, far from the palace and the King, she began to feel uneasy under his gaze, and was more quick to shut her mouth, though inside she was furious.  
Days passed beneath the thick, impenetrable eaves of the mangroves, and only when the dim light faded into dense gloom did the travellers know the difference between day and night. Tarthol led them on unerringly, needing no map other than the one he carried and studied, though Lithandre couldn’t conceive how he could glance that piece of water-proof leather in the morning, and then guide them all day without another look. They encountered no drazil, or even heard signs to indicate they were being trailed by the beasts, but Tescar was not about to lower their vigil, and always kept a watch at night.  
Lithandre shivered as she huddled on the damp ground. Every night when they stopped to eat and rest, she tried to find a dry patch, and every night her efforts proved futile. She pulled her cloak closer; nights here were chilly and often rainy, and she was sure she’d catch a cold or worse. Nibbling on the strip of dried, flavoured meat Kisaye had handed her earlier, she listened miserably to the never-ending hum of insects while eying the other listlessly. Tescar and Kisaye sat together on a moss-covered log, sharing their meal; Kisaye held charge over the rations, and had already planned how to stretch them out till they left the Black Marshes behind. Kareth and Aerohn had already eaten, aadn while the Tyth’Kadarshi sat cross-legged cleaning and maintaining his blade, Aerohn watched in fascination. One leg up on a stump, Tarthol stood at the edge of camp, peering intently into the darkness.  
“I doubt you’ll be able to see any better if you strain your eyes.” She observed in dry sarcasm, swallowing the last of her meat and reaching for her water flask to wash it down.  
He grinned at her, which she found annoying since he didn’t seem to take offense at her comment. “I wasn’t looking, so to speak.” He replied, coming back to the others and dropping to the damp ground with one knee up so he could rest his chin against it. His yellow eyes looked dim in the gloom, but still burned with the fires of inner strength and resolve like all his people.  
Watching him, Lithandre wondered vaguely what Tethdorian women were like if their men were so war-like and indifferent, as she thought. She scowled as he felt her eyes on him and looked up with a faint smile on his face; was he mocking her?  
“If we keep up this pace, we’ll reach Fathrenor in three days.” He announced, directing his remark to the others as well as to her.  
“Oh finally!” the princess sighed in exaggerated relief through her nose. She frowned again as Tarthol gave her a queer look, and this time she decided she was not going to let it pass. “Why do you keep looking at me like that?” she demanded angrily.  
“Sorry,” he apologized, taken aback by her outburst. “It’s just I find your manners…different from other women I’ve met.”  
Lithandre felt as if she had never been so grievously insulted in all her life, not even by Tescar. A look of cold fury entered her eyes, and it only deepened when she saw that he was not intimidated. “How dare you imply I’m nothing but an ignorant peasant such as yourself!” she tore his apology to meaningless shreds. “I am heir to two kingdoms, and you should show more respect than that in my presence.”  
“People don’t respect those who show nothing but contempt for them.” Tescar’s strangely husky voice reached them from where he sat.  
Tarthol, who was staring at Lithandre as if he couldn’t believe his ears, suddenly turned towards Tescar with concern in his eyes. “Are you not feeling well, General Tescar?” he inquired.  
General Tescar, Lithandre repeated to herself jealously, so he can call him by his title and be respectful and all to that over-bearing lout, but not to her, a princess and soon-to-be Queen. She sulked inside her cloak, paying no attention to the others.  
Kisaye removed one of her gauntlets and felt Tescar’s brow. “What’s wrong, Tescar?” she asked in apprehension. She had thought he had not seemed well the last few days, but attributed it to weariness from the siege on the Warfront, which they had never been able to fully rest up from. But now, as she felt the unnatural warmth of his body, her anxiety swiftly melted away to alarm. “You’re burning with fever!” she gasped.  
Tarthol came near, “Fever?” he echoed, suspicion crossing his face. “There aren’t any dangerous plants here, despite the dangerous inhabitants.” He observed musingly. “Were you injured during the battle at the Warfront?”  
Before Tescar, who was finding it harder and harder to hear what was being said, could form an answer, Aerohn suddenly screamed; a cry of raw, torturous agony that ripped with shrill articulation through the night air. Kisaye was the first to spring to her feet, only to be knocked back by a heavy blow to her chest, followed by another to the back of her head. She staggered, slipping to her knees, her body numb with pain and her senses fading. Dimly she heard Lithandre scream in terror, and then even fainter to her ears, came to the rasp of a blade being swept from its sheath. An arm gripped her shoulder, but a heavy myst dropped over her eyes, and she remembered no more.


	18. Chapter 18

Dream dropped from the saddle, her fingers stiff and almost numb from holding the reins with a shield and lance in her grip, and was only too glad to feel her legs beneath her again. A few paces away, Talrosas almost fell as he dismounted, and grasped the pommel of his saddle instinctly as Vjelka swung easily to the ground from her horse. “See, I told you the training would settle in after a few weeks.” She pointed out as she led the solid dun stallion to the water trough and let him drink.  
“I feel terrible.” Talrosas confided to Dream in undertones as he regained his balance and fumbled for the girth strap.  
She nodded, careful not to let Vjelka see. She slipped the bridle from her dark bay and caught the foam-covered bit in her hand. “But really, you are getting better.” She tried to encourage him.  
“Not nearly as good as you.” He countered, dragging rather than lifting, the saddle from his dark-legged white stallion. He watched as the horse moved slowly towards the drinking trough, a thoughtful frown on his face.  
Dream said nothing, though inwardly she knew what Talrosas had said was true; even Vjelka knew it – her skill with a blade or a lance seemed to come naturally. Wordlessly, she gave her warhorse a rub-down as he drank eagerly. Her eyes turned from her work to stare through the open gates into the street, where the townspeople went about their business with lighter steps and a new gleam in their eyes. They were free; free from the continual, course demands of the former garrison, free from the heavy taxes once ordered by the previous governor, free from the tyranny of Ostor the Boar. Though not kept as slaves in name, as commoners they had been little better treated by the higher-born, and they were determined to cling to this freedom with all their strength.  
Her eyes fell on the unpleasantly familiar figure of G’hornad as he strode, or rather, as he swaggered, Dream thought, up the street and through the gate to the garrison. She wondered where he always went every day, instead of training with the Oath or helping with the fortification of the town’s defences like the rest.  
“Remember,” Vjelka reminded before she headed inside with her gear, “Tomorrow at highsun, same time, don’t be late.”  
Dream nodded, hearing a muted groan from Talrosas. She glanced at him, “Is it really that bad?” she inquired softly.  
“No, I’m just real tired and the thought of more training makes me feel like sleeping for a solid week just to get the ache out of my muscles.” He grinned before splashing water over his face to wash away the grit and sweat. “Shall we go find something to eat? I’m starving.” He suggested after Dream had washed off the worst grime from her face as well.  
She nodded, “Sure, I could do with a drink as well.”  
G’hornad stopped when he saw them by the trough and smirked as they made for the gates. “Oh look, the village brat and the slave with his head in the clouds are going out together.” He said tauntingly as they walked by. “I hope you told Davryan about this.” He cackled, sauntering towards the barracks.  
Dream glanced over her shoulder momentarily, “What’s he talking about?”  
“No idea,” Talrosas shrugged. “He’s just looking for a rise out of someone, as usual.”  
“He should be working like the rest of us, not wandering about doing Maker knows what.” Dream commented as they made their way through the streets, which were slowly emptying as people drifted homeward from their various places of occupation. “But Davryan is too busy with all the organizing to keep an eye on everyone.”  
Talrosas led the way into a neatly-maintained inn, “I know, and even Kyzeinac seems rather pre-occupied.” Their conversation lagged as they entered the common room, ordered a meal and took seats at an empty, out-of-the-way table in one corner. The inn patrons and guests paid no attention to them other than a nod of greeting, and after their meal was brought, Talrosas renewed the matter where he had left off. “Do you think maybe word has reached Ostor about this?” he asked in low tones, indicating the general town with a flick of one eye as he broke his bread and cheese into bite-size pieces.  
“Probably, since some of the nobles managed to escape, and would have doubtless made for the nearest city and courier outpost.” Dream agreed, making a wry face as she sipped her mug of cider, still not accustomed to the spicy, apple and berry flavour.  
“True,” Talrosas nodded, “There may be an army making its way here as we speak.”  
Dream glanced at him, wondering if she should ask the question that had been burning in her mind ever since Talrosas and his brother had joined their number. “Talrosas, I’ve been wondering…” she began slowly, “…how did Talrukas manage as a slave? I thought the Aradomorians only took those who were physically able.”  
“Our master never knew.” Talrosas replied in a strange voice. “Talrukas wasn’t born blind; it came later in life.” He looked away, a faraway, grieved look in his dark eyes. “Because we look alike…our master confused the two of us, and that actually led to Talrukas becoming blind.” He shook his head as if to rid himself of unpleasant memories and ate in silence.  
Dream watched him with pity in her eyes; she knew only too well the grief and guilt she detected in his tone, and so she let the matter drop. But then Talrosas asked a question she was completely unprepared for. “Jarlai told me you were never a slave, that you were ‘free’, or as free as anyone who isn’t a highborn can be. How is that since you are Blaideish?”  
“I…I don’t know.” She stammered, more conscious than ever of how little she knew about herself. “I grew up in a village under the care of the healer. That’s all I know. I didn’t even know I was Blaideish until Kyzeinac told me the night we planned to take Banrheig.”  
Talrosas looked about to say something, but his eye caught sight of the dark-clad figure who entered the inn at that moment. “Kor’Dyran?” he whispered to Dream, “What’s he doing here?”  
Dream twisted in her chair just as the newest member to the Oath reached their corner. “Talrosas,” Kor’Dyran addressed him in low tones so as not to attract attention. “your brother is looking for you back at the garrison.”  
“Oh, is he? I better go find him then,” Talrosas nodded, quickly getting up. “I’ll see you at training tomorrow than, Dream.” He said in parting.  
Kor’Dyran turned his eyes to Dream, and his gaze was drawn to the scars on her face. ‘You will know her by the scar’ the words of the Black Lady echoed through his mind as clearly as if she was standing by him there in the inn instead of being leagues away. This then, must be her; the second heir he came to find, he concluded with finality. No other member among the Oath was a Blaideish, except that silent, dark-haired scout who seemed to avoid everyone and everything whenever he conveniently could. He nodded to Dream and passed from the inn.  
Later, in the seclusion of the forrest some distance from the town, Kor’Dyran slipped from his black horse and called softly for Halcyon. The ghostly wolf bounded from the trees where he roamed during the day; the sight of him would cause panic and alarm in the settlement, so they had agreed he would stay hidden in the forrest for the time being. Kor’Dyran pulled the amulet from the safe niche where he kept it, and the black stone flickered with soft blue light as Halcyon breathed on it. The wolf threw back his head and opened his jaws in a piercing howl that only the assassin standing nearby could hear.  
“Kor’Dyran,” the blurred form of the Black Lady appeared before him, as if she had materialized from the air around them. “You have found the child then?” she inquired.  
The assassin dropped to one knee, lowering his head. “I have, my lady. She walks among the Oath; her ties to the throne of Bladerelna are now forfeit.”  
“Good,” relief swept through the Black Lady’s voice. “How does she fare after the tragedy she has suffered?”  
“Well enough for one so young and unaccustomed to it.” Kor’Dyran answered with something akin to respect in his tone. “But I can see she still agonizes over it in secret.”  
The Black Lady nodded, “I have news of my own; Gallandrin has sent the first Highmourn heir through the Black Marshes, they seek to enter Aradomoria and find the second. Vorzil has turned from Amateuth and once again covets the well-defended lands of the Tethdor, while Ostor prepares to stamp out all traces of the Oath.”  
“He will fail at that.” Kor’Dyran declared bluntly. “These warriors may be inexperienced and still suffering from their pasts, but they are devoted. Ostor will find this insurgence stubborn and a true threat to his power.”  
“That is pleasing to hear.” The Black Lady responded with a faint smile that quickly faded to a frown of concern. “The Witch of Mordre’s Taint; however, is far stronger than I remember her to be. She has sent the Mor’Heda into Aradomoria, and I sense they are close to discovering Dream; you must keep close watch on her, First of the Scythe.”  
“I will.” He promised, pausing as if considering whether to bring another matter to his mistress’ attention.  
She saw his hesitation, “Speak your mind.”  
“There is one among the Oath who carries the blood of the Blaideish, and bears close, yet faint resemblance to the second heir.” He admitted slowly. “But his lineage is not pure.”  
“What do you mean?”  
The assassin drew a deep breath. “His blood has been tainted with that of Aradomorians.” He looked up to see the turmoil in the Black Lady’s expression, and saw her eyes widen in puzzlement. “Despite that taint,” he went on, “I think there’s a fact we and Gallandrin have widely overlooked. Did not High King Escavlor IV have two daughters born to him on the same night he was betrayed?”  
“So the Binders have discovered, yes.” The Black Lady nodded. “Idriana was the youngest, yet Lithandre and Dream are the offspring of her son, who was killed in Tethdoria. Alrina was Escavlor’s oldest daughter, and she had three sons by her husband; the two eldest of which died on the Warfront. From my own searchings and what I have gathered from my time among the Binders, Alrina’s youngest son had a daughter, but she was captured by Aradomorians during a raid into Bladerelna.” She sighed, “That is all I know of the descendants of Escavlor.” She eyed Kor’Dyran, who knelt motionless, deep in thought. “Why does this interest you so greatly?”  
He hedged a while before stating what he suspected. “I think Bladerelna has a third heir who cannot take the throne because of events he had no control over.”  
The Black Lady gasped, and her delicate hands twisted at her throat nervously. “This…boy you speak of,” she said meditatively, “what do you know of him?”  
Kor’Dyran shook his head, “Only what I have seen in his eyes; I have not heard him speak since I came among them, and from what the others say, they have not heard him utter a word either. But he knows no more of who he is then Dream does.”  
“Gallandrin has seen that the first heir is prepared, but not the second who he had in the keeping of a Binder.” The Black Lady mused, more with sadness in her tone then bitterness. “And now…the possibility of a third?” She recovered her composure; however, and looked to Kor’Dyran gravely. “I will meditate on this further.” She decided, “You must continue to watch over Dream, and this other one. The Mor’Heda are coming, and they are brutally ruthless when roused by one of Mordre’s following.”  
“I understand, my Lady.” Kor’Dyran replied, rising as Halcyon’s ears perked forward and a warning growl rumbled deep in his throat. “Until next time.” He closed his fingers over the amulet; the form of the Black Lady faded away and he turned, leaning back casually against a tree. Halcyon took a step back, but the approaching tread had been too quiet and he had detected it too late.  
The bushes parted and Reorren strode into the opening, glancing over his shoulders as if suspecting pursuit. When his dark eyes fell on Kor’Dyran though, he froze in mid-stride, and the assassin’s sharp eyes saw guilt flash across his closed countenance like lightning rips through night skies. “Going for a stroll?” he inquired, raising an eyebrow and keeping his voice low and neutral. “I thought you were still supposed to be taking things easy.”  
Reorren’s eyes ran from Kor’Dyran’s searching gaze, seeking an escape from that deep, questioning golden glare that seemed to spear right through his mind and read the darkest secrets of his soul. He nodded; a slow, uncertain nod of indecision, and rested the cold light of his eyes on the wolf that stood by the assassin, watching him through narrowed eyes. At the slight hint to his injury, he scowled, muttering something incoherently under his breath. But his eyes kept returning to the wolf questioningly.  
“Just my animal companion,” Kor shrugged as if it was a matter of small consequence. “Did you think you were the only one to have such a privilege?” he asked pointedly, lowering his eyes momentarily to the black fox that waited patiently at Reorren’s heels, her vermeil eyes half-lidded and the tips of her slightly-bared fangs gleaming in the sunlight that filtered through the dense eaves above them.  
The scout stood in pondering silence for several minutes. His eyes strayed from Halcyon to the assassin, “Why hide him then?” he asked in a quiet, deep voice, the calmness of his tone contrasting sharply to the icy mistrust and suspicion that lurked in his eyes.  
Kor’Dyran brought his gaze back to Reorren almost in surprise, though he masked his expression behind a passive countenance. “I think the appearance of my wolf would cause a disturbance among the inhabitants.” He replied easily, as if conversations between himself and the scout were a frequent occurrence. “But what brings you here so late in the day?” he pushed for an answer.  
Reorren shrugged, drawing back inside himself.  
“Come now, I know you can give an answer.” Kor insisted sternly.  
“To an obvious question?”  
“Obvious?” the assassin repeated, “Is that why you never spoke when the others asked you things? Because you thought their questions were obvious, not worth your breath in answering?”  
Reorren winced, “Why should I?” his tone, though still even and quiet, took on a strangely defensive ring.  
“Because you’re not better than them, that’s why.” Kor retorted sharply. “Now answer my question; why are you out here so late?”  
Reorren’s dark eyes burned with an extreme hatred that Kor’Dyran had never seen before, but his tone of voice did not change even vaguely as he replied. “It’s the only time I can get away from that overbearing highborn.”  
“Highborn…you mean Jarlai?” Kor’s eyebrows met. At Reorren’s nod, he frowned, though secretly he felt his suspicions of before justified. “From what I have seen, she’s only trying to understand why you don’t trust her.”  
“Really?” Reorren looked away. “Well, you can tell her she can stop. I know her kind only too well to ever trust them.” He lapsed into silence again, and continued on through the trees, leaving Kor so deep in thought he hardly noticed him leave.  
“Highborn…” Kor mused, half-aloud. His golden eyes narrowed, and a queer smile of satisfaction played around the corners of his lips. “So, Gallandrin is not as wise and knowing as he thinks he is after all.” He chuckled quietly as he moved over to his horse and checked the harness. Swinging into the saddle, he glanced to Halcyon, who was gazing in the direction Reorren had gone. “Leave him be, I think his thoughts are rather bewildered right now, so we mustn’t press too hard.”  
The armoured wolf cocked his muzzle, ears forward intently. “It’s not him,” he growled, scenting the air. “Something lurks out there, the scent of which I do not recognize.”


	19. Chapter 19

Reorren let out a heavy sigh as he heard the dull thunk of his arrow sinking into the thick trunk in the distance, half-obscured by the dim light of dusksun. The twilight breeze tugged at his black hair and whipped back the knee-length skirts of his leather surcoat, and the hilt of a dagger sheathed against his left boot gleamed coldly through the encroaching shadows of the advancing night. Why had he even asked that question in the first place? Why had he let that suspiciously shady character break his silence when he had withstood all the others, even Davryan and Kyzeinac?  
Leaning his bow against the trunk that bristled with his dark-shafted arrows, he started to wrench them out almost savagely. His thoughts turned unwillingly towards Jarlai, and he almost choked as he pulled the last arrows out. Why was she so stubborn anyway? Surely she could see past her highborn haughtiness that he wasn’t at all interested in her trust. He didn’t care about it, nor did he desire it. She was Aradomorian, and a highborn, and that was already more than he wished to know. If the others were so blind as to trust her in their midst, they obviously hadn’t seen highborns for what they really were; ruthless, cruel, and who took advantage of everyone and everything they deemed lesser.  
Gathering his arrows back into his quiver, Reorren shouldered his bow and made his way through the darkened forrest to a little stream that splashed its way over water-smoothed boulders through the trees. Squatting, the dull pain that darted through his chest reminded him that he had snuck away from the garrison when he was still to be resting, and he pressed a hand gingerly against his ribs. Maybe he should have brought his horse, but that would have aroused even more suspicion over his absence, and he wasn’t too sure about that beast since he had kicked him off. Reorren felt like kicking himself for being so clumsy as to let an Aradomorian unhorse him, and in such a stupid accident as well!  
Besides, he reasoned, straightening up and continuing through the trees at a swift, purposeful pace, a horse would only get in his way and hamper his progress. He reached the edge of the forrest, and stood motionless, his eyes traveling down the ridge to the meandering road below, and the Aradomorian caravan that picked its slow way along it. His eyes narrowed as he marked the pompous merchants astride their mules, the armed and mounted guards, the creaking, overloaded wagons of goods, and the merchants’ slaves who followed their masters, stumbling over their heavy shackles.  
Darkwish, his black fox, now almost the size of an adult, lifted her vermeil eyes to her master, eager and waiting for his signal. Reorren nodded and moved forward, threading his way through the rugged, thorn-wielding shrubs that grew in profuse clumps down the ridge. His fox, knowing what was required of her, took a separate route down to the road, her black fur blending well with the shifting night shadows.  
The groaning protests of the wagon wheels reached Reorren’s ears as he knelt on one knee behind a bush, his bow fitted with an arrow. He waited, the caravan moving closer. When he could just make out the first bulky silhouettes of the forward guards, he raised his bow, drawing the string back and sighting along the shaft of his arrow. He saw Darkwish’s crimson eyes gleam as she silently wove her way unnoticed amidst the riders, and his fingers slipped from the string. The arrow shot forward across the wide space, taking the first guard straight through the throat. Before his limp body could tumble from the saddle, another arrow took the second guard through his left eye.  
Their horses, scenting danger in the air, shied back with nervous whinnies, and their sudden movement sent the guards tumbling from the saddle to the ground. The merchants riding behind them drew their mules back with cries of alarm, scanning the ridge to their left with frightened eyes. With a jingle of armour and rattle of harness, the guards from the rear cantered up, the heads of their spears gleaming coldly in the moonlight.  
Suddenly the horses pulling the middle wagon started in terror, straining at their harness and thrashing their hooves around. Reorren, who had moved forward as soon as his second arrow took flight, could see that Darkwish had run in between the horses, snapping at their heels from behind and spooking them. A third shaft hissed through the air, and one of the merchants dropped from the saddle without a sound.  
The guards wheeled their mounts about in confusion, unable to see where the arrows came from in the close darkness. And the merchants were scrambling from their mules, seeking shelter behind their wagons of goods and yelling at the guards to do something instead of stumbling about like bewildered lambs. Darkwish sprang for the merchants with a snarl, and their screams of terror added to the general chaos as Reorren sprang from the bushes, his blade glinting with icy light as he swept it out and fell upon the guards’ flanks.  
Now that the guards could see their attacker though, they were quick to engage the lone figure who lunged at them from the darkness. While some kept his focus on them, others rode off a short distance, them whirling their horses around, galloped back in a charge with lowered spears. Meanwhile, Darkwish had succeeded in terrifying the wagon horses, who kicked and lurched in a frenzy; the harness on one stocky stallion snapped under his efforts and he broke away with a maddening scream. The merchants cowered behind the creaking wagons as the other horses strained, frothing at their bits, in their own harnesses, and the slaves, taking advantage of the confusion, made their escape in the gloom.  
Blood leaped up in fountains as one of the guards’ horses fell with a piercing cry, its neck slashed and bleeding in torrents. Before the rider could drag himself clear from the flaying hooves, Reorren had plunged his blade through his chest, pinning him to the ground. Drumming hooves from behind warned him, and he quickly dodged, ignoring the acute pain that throbbed across his chest. He gripped his swordhilt tightly, pulling himself up and blocking a swing from an unhorsed guard. He felt the strange rush through his blood, the insistent urge to give in to the heavy smell of blood that clung to him; the call of the beast he had forced himself to deny ever since he had realized he was Tainted. But now, he found it stronger than ever, and his will was weakening to the taunting call that only grew louder, more unrelenting as the battle drew on.  
Parrying a blow to his shoulder, Reorren kicked back at the guard and sinking to one knee as a blade swept over his head, he jerked out his dagger and stabbed the man in his stomach. Rolling aside as a spear grazed across his left upper arm, he brought his blade across the shoulder and side of the passing horse, and watched in satisfaction as it tumbled to the ground with a shrill whinny, crushing its rider’s neck. The last three guards still alive threw down their weapons and turning, fled down the road with all the speed they could muster.  
Reorren watched them run, leaning heavily against his sword as he slowly sank to his knees, his will drained of mental strength. He felt the change coming, and clenched his jaws in silent, helpless anger as his blood burned with an intense, freezing pain. Through the darkness his black eyes suddenly surged with a blinding blue-white glare, and he rose with an eerie, chilling shriek that made the merchants cover their ears while every bone in their bodies shook with nameless dread and fear. Loping after the fleeing guards, Reorren saw only the pain in his past and the suffering he had endured as jagged claws ripped through their armour and tore them apart with more savagery then even the most ruthless of beasts possessed. Their screams fell on his deaf ears as yellow fangs, stained and dripping with fresh blood, gleamed dully beneath the moonlight. The merchants were not spared, neither were the horses still struggling to free themselves from their heavy harnesses. The road ran with dark blood, and lay littered with corpses, while the stench of death hung low over the field of recent slaughter.  
Falling to his hands and knees as he felt his body become his own again, Reorren coughed up his own blood, his sides heaving with exertion. He turned his head, his eyes running over the torn, mutilated bodies of men and horses, and his heart twisted as he realized for the first time that he had no control over what he did while in that cursed state. What if he couldn’t hold it back when the Oath were threatened in the next battle? What if he ended up killing them all? He slowly picked himself, trying to banish such thoughts from his mind; he had to keep his Taint a secret for the safety of the others while he continued to search for some way to be rid of it.  
Darkwish came frisking to his side as he wiped his blade clean and returned it to his sheath. The ghost of a smile touched his lips as she lifted her little muzzle to lick his hand, then it was gone again, replaced by his former cold, elusive expression. Scouring the dead for his spent arrows, he thrust them back into his quiver apart from the others, meaning to clean them once he returned to Banrheig.

Jarlai hurried down the stairs into the mess hall where most of the other members of the Oath sat, lingering over the last of their meal and resting their weary limbs before the blazing hearth. “Have any of you seen Reorren?” she asked anxiously, her lake-blue eyes wide with nervous alarm. “He’s not upstairs, and his weapons are missing too.”  
Davryan looked up, followed by the others. “Isn’t he here?”  
“No, I can’t find him anywhere, I even looked outside in the courtyard.” She replied, her voice rising in panic as her worry and concern reached prodigious heights. “He’s not supposed to be out yet, and I’ve told him so countless times.”  
Telrona smiled, “Jarlai, how long do you think you can keep him penned up like that? I heard you tell Vjelka just this morning his ribs had healed nicely.”  
“But,” the healer protested, “they’re not healed fully yet.”  
“Calm down,” Davryan soothed her gently. “If Reorren can move about like normal what harm is there in him stretching his legs after being in bed for so long? I’d feel like doing the same.” He reasoned, trying to console her alarm.  
Jarlai’s shoulders sagged. “But him being out there at this late hour?” she persisted. “If I knew where he was at least…”  
“No,” Ethryder shook his head, “then you’d want to go and drag him back here.”  
Davryan set his mug of warm cider down, “To calm Jarlai’s fears, does anyone know where Reorren?” he inquired with slight amusement in his tone.  
“I zaw him leave town zometime cloze to duzkzun.” Ethran replied. “And yez, he did have hiz veaponz vid him, and dat little fox too.” He added.  
Jarlai sank into the closest chair, “He left town??”  
The outer door in the hall swung open, and a gust of freezing wind howled towards the hearth, sweeping back the flames momentarily. Kor’Dyran stepped in, and holding the door open with one hand, glanced to Davryan, “Captain, there’s something you need to see; the watch has spotted something moving this way. If my eyes do not deceive me, it’s an army.”  
All thoughts of rest and warm blankets were forgotten in the rush of benches being pushed back as the Oath sprang to their feet, eager and apprehensive to see for themselves. Despite the bitterly cold wind, a sure sign of winter approaching, they ran out to the wall and peered through the darkness. “See there,” the sentry pointed away to the road and a myriad of tiny, bobbing lights that moved slowly towards them.  
Ethryder nodded, “Yes, that is an army.” He confirmed Kor’s words of only a few minutes ago.


	20. Chapter 20

Kisaye regained consciousness to feel herself lying on something warm and soft, and there was a faint, herbal smell lingering in the air. She stirred, her cyan eyes blinking open at a low, thatched roof above. She gazed around, taking in the simple wooden walls, the woven coverings that hung over an oval doorway, the small, bird-shaped brazier that hung from the central beam, and the comfortable layer of skins that formed her bed. She sat up, leaning on one elbow, and pushed back the fur pelts that had covered her. Someone had removed her armour, but she still wore her surcoat, though it looked and smelled cleaner then she last remembered. Brushing stray hair from her face, she tried to remember what had happened and how she had gotten here.  
Aerohn’s pained cry was the last thing that came to her, and she suddenly wondered where her companions were, alarm for Tescar bolting through her mind. The cloth over the doorway fluttered, and Tarthol stepped in, followed by a small woman with reddish skin, light bronze hair, and dark, expressive eyes. She smiled widely on seeing Kisaye awake, and launched into a stream of words that the Knight Commander could not understand, and she looked to the Tethdorian scout questioningly.  
“Feeling better?” he asked, sitting cross-legged on the bare ground while the woman bustled about, still chattering in an incoherent language.  
“Where are we?” Kisaye inquired anxiously, “Where are the others? Tescar? What happened?”  
Tarthol held up one hand, and waited as the strange woman handed Kisaye a carved cup, filled to the brim with a murky grey liquid. Kisaye sniffed it dubiously, and glanced at Tarthol, who gave her a reassuring smile. She drank it, and made a face at the bitter aftertaste that lingered in her mouth.  
“I know it doesn’t taste the best,” Tarthol nodded as the woman left with a few words in her own language, “but it’s some healing drink they make to give you strength back.”  
“They?” Kisaye questioned. “Where are we?”  
“Fathrenor,” he answered readily, “These people who took us in and tended you and the others back to health are the T’thre, or at least that’s the closest I could get from what they said.”  
Kisaye started, “We’re out of the Black Marshes then? But how? Where is Tescar?”  
“He’s going to be fine, and the others – even Aerohn – are well on the mend.” Tarthol answered calmly. “We were ambushed that night by drazil, but Kareth and I managed to kill them. You weren’t really injured that badly, just bruised and a slight concussion, and Lithandre wasn’t hurt at all, though you’d think she was with all her bawling. Aerohn was seriously wounded, and Kareth too, but Tescar was the worst…it seems he was carrying a wound from the siege at the Warfront, and it was poisoned. But he’s alright; the T’thre are excellent healers.” He hastened to relieve any anxiety or alarm that his recounting might have raised.  
Kisaye took in a deep breath, letting it seep out slowly. “How did we get here then? And what about yourself?” she asked curiously.  
“I wasn’t injured too badly.” He shrugged off her concern for him. “Kareth told me to go on and find help, so I went ahead and ran into a T’thre hunting party on the edge of the marsh. Took me a while to make them understand, but well,” he grinned in very un-Tethdorian character, “it worked out in the end.”  
“Where is Tescar…can I see him?” Kisaye begged.  
Tarthol uncrossed his legs and stood up, “Certainly, if you’re feeling strong enough to walk.” He waited while Kisaye pulled on her boots, then led the way outside.  
Kisaye stared at the stilted, thatched dwellings as Tarthol led her through the settlement. They were built almost randomly, not in neat, orderly rows, and there was no difference from one or the other. Women sat outside weaving wool, their long robes dyed shades of brown, green or grey. Their dark, expressive eyes followed Kisaye with silent curiousity, and she heard them conversing excitedly after she had passed by. She turned to Tarthol wonderingly, and he smiled somewhat awkwardly. “They are very curious about strangers.” He explained.  
The Knight Commander returned his smile, stooping a little to follow him as he ducked inside another hut. Her eyes at once fell on Tescar, and Tarthol and everything else in the room seemed to fade away as the general locked eyes with her. The Tethdorian scout slipped outside discreetly, and had barely taken a few steps away when he was accosted by the furious glare of Lithandre.  
“When are we going to leave these unmannered savages?” she demanded, her voice laced with disgust and loathing. Her dark eyes flashed, and she made no attempt to lower her voice as she went on. “I don’t care how bad Aradomoria is; it’ll seem like a paradise compared to the places I’ve been dragged to ever since my father listened to that old fool and his ridiculous plan.”  
“What’s so unmannered about the T’thre?” Tarthol inquired carefully, never sure how to answer this tempest in female form. “They’ve been very hospitable to us.”  
Lithandre rolled her eyes, “Maker’s breath!” she swore, throwing up her hands. “Having to bathe in the middle of a river with no protection whatsoever is not what I call mannered! How do I know if some man wasn’t going to come striding up and snatch me away for his fifth or whatever number of wife?” she spluttered indignantly.  
Tarthol stared at her in bewilderment for several minutes before he could recover his former composure. “I don’t think the T’thre are that kind of people, Lithandre.” He assured her calmly. “And you shouldn’t call them savages just because you consider their way of life crude to your own. They live simply, that’s all.”  
“And the food is awful!” Lithandre jumped to her next grievance without listening to him. “I found a whole giant slug in my plate this morning, all dripping with its own guts! That is just disgusting!” She shuddered at the memory.  
“Um…Lithandre, that slug was your breakfast!” he explained, trying unsuccessfully to stem the fit of laughter that rippled up his throat. “It was well cooked in juices, and tasted delicious. And it wasn’t a slug, it was a river crawler, the T’thre hunt them for food. I even tried a strip of dried river crawler, it wasn’t too bad either.”  
The princess stared at him as if he was a strange plant. “When…when are we leaving?” she asked faintly.  
“As soon as we can,” Kisaye replied as she appeared behind Tarthol, her eyes carrying a strange, deep light in their depths. “Tescar says we must push on into Aradomoria. Tarthol, can you arrange for our departure?” she asked, turning to him questioningly. “You seem to be able to communicate with these people rather fluently.”  
“I wouldn’t say fluently,” he answered ruefully, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. “When we first came and I tried to explain the extent of everyone’s injuries, I got the feeling they had a different idea as to what I was saying. But yes, I can go and convey our plans to the elders.” He strode quickly away towards the largest oval-shaped hut that stood slightly taller than all the rest around it.  
Kisaye smiled at Lithandre, “Soon we will be Aradomoria, and the real search for your sister can begin.”  
“I don’t want to find her!” the girl stated flatly. “She’ll ruin everything!” Yet even as she said it, she felt shame in her heart, and couldn’t face the clear cyan eyes of Kisaye. “Why can’t we let this Witch or whoever have her, than I can go back to the palace and be Queen?”  
Despite the anger and horror Kisaye felt rising in her, she forced her voice and outward expression to remain regally calm and gentle. “Lithandre, have you forgotten so quickly what Rinara did for you at the Warfront?” she asked softly, going on one knee and looking up into her stubborn eyes.  
Lithandre did remember, though unwillingly, and her mind went farther, deeper, reflecting on what Rinara had told her on the first day of the siege. Her words echoed through her mind with startling clearness, as if she was still there with her. ‘He didn’t want the Warfront to claim his only child…as it had claimed his wife…I wasn’t there to save my father…but I swear, those fiends won’t touch you so long as I draw breath…’ That had been her promise, her last words to her, and her last act had been to see that promise fulfilled, no matter the cost. And so she had; Lithandre had seen that vow kept with her eyes. For the first time, she realized what that promise had actually meant to Rinara; she had felt guilty for not being with her father when he was killed, so she had tried to redeem herself in protecting her…so she could go on to find her sister.  
“But…but I don’t even know what she looks like.” She replied lamely, looking up with distress in her tone. “And Aradomoria is so vast a kingdom…how will we find her in so short a time?”  
“We have you, Lithandre.” Kisaye answered warmly. “Gallandrin said that as twins, you will mirror each other.”  
“The elders give us their blessing, and have laid aside sufficient supplies for us.” The voice of Tarthol reached them as he came back from the elders’ dwelling. “Kareth and Aerohn are sorting through our other supplies to make room.” He reported.  
Kisaye straightened up, “Aerohn? Where is he?”  
Tarthol pointed a hand toward the flat river bank, and Kisaye hurried towards the two armoured figures bending over a pile of packs with several T’thre bringing little sacks and bundles. He glanced to Lithandre, hoping Kisaye had calmed her down considerably during his absence. “Is Aerohn her son?” he asked.  
“No,” Lithandre shook her head absently, still thinking on Rinara’s words. “Aerohn is her page…though he acts more like a devoted servant sometimes. I don’t know where he came from, one day he wasn’t there, the next he was trailing at her heels and has been ever since.” She added, a feeble smile tracing her lips.  
Tescar stepped from the low doorway of the hut behind them, buckling on his swordbelt and straightening the straps on his gauntlets. He looked slightly pale still, as Lithandre eyed him, and there was a gaunt look about his shoulders that she did not remember seeing before. But his eyes were as stern and determined as before, and held the same deep light Kisaye’s had after she had seen him again. Kisaye had come near to losing him, she realized with a start, and the thought frightened her now like never before.  
The next few days as they travelled across the grassy, flat plains of Fathrenor, Lithandre kept unusually quiet. The scene of Rinara’s death repeated itself over and over in her mind, and she was actually grateful that the others left her alone in her deep thoughts. After a few weeks, Tescar paused, and pointed towards the dense eaves that topped the distant horizon. “The border into Aradomoria.” He declared with a mixture of feeling in his voice. “A kingdom with no real king, a realm where the people enslave each other, a land of chaos and greed, a throne that is drenched in blood. Such is the place where the second heir has been raised in for seventeen years.” He glanced at Lithandre, “Don’t expect to find a girl used to luxury.” He warned, but with less than his usual firmness.  
Kareth and Tarthol had been eying the cloudy sky closely, and now they pointed overhead eagerly. “There, do you see? It’s a messenger hawk!” the scout drew the others’ attention upwards.  
Black against the stormy grey clouds and with the familiar red bars painted across its white throat, the hawk circled them twice, coming lower with stiff wings. Kareth held out one hand, and the descending bird let out a kree as it fluttered down and gripped the steel-cased leather of the Tyth’Kadarshi’s gauntlet with razor-sharp talons. Bound to one leg was the message canister, and Tarthol withdrew from it a tightly-rolled piece of parchment, which he accordingly handed to Tescar. The general unrolled it carefully and scanned the close flowing script that covered the inside; looking up from reading, there was a pleased look in his grey eyes. “Gallandrin will join us in Aradomoria – he is concerned that the Dark Scythe may have already found the second heir, or are at least close to doing so.”


	21. Chapter 21

Dream ducked behind the shelter of a nearby building as a boulder hurtled past overhead, and she heard the sickening crash as it smashed into one of the warehouses beyond. Screams erupted from that direction, followed by the tramp of running feet and the jingle of armour as several of the armed inhabitants rushed to survey the damage. Kor’Dyran crouched right behind her, and he glanced back towards the cloud of dust and debris, “That was quite close.” He observed calmly.  
“There won’t be much left of the town if they keep on like this.” Dream replied, moving on doggedly. Her dark eyes fixed on the towers of the barracks, her right hand clutching a small satchel to her chest as she weaved through the alleys and side-passages, avoiding the main streets where the projectiles were most likely to strike. Her breath sounded loud behind her mask, unusually loud, she thought as she carefully stepped over a pile of rubble. Her foot had barely touched the ground on the other side when there was a loud bang and a bright flash. Blinded by the glaring light, she staggered back, feeling the rush of wind as a blade narrowly missed her throat.  
Kor’Dyran darted forwards before the soldier could escape down the narrow street, and his twin sakruux gleamed coldly as they pierced deep into his back. As the soldier reeled and staggered, the assassin reached forward with one hand, and promptly slit the man’s throat with a backward motion of his arm. He turned as Dream crawled slowly to her feet, still keeping a tight hold on her satchel. A thin line of blood showed against her skin just above her mail collar, but she didn’t seem to notice as she eyed the ground carefully. “What was that?”  
“Flash vial,” Kor answered shortly, “Infiltrators use them to blind their target, then it’s an easy kill for them.” He knelt to examine the body, but suddenly he jerked up and took a step back. Dream heard his sharp intake of breath, and came to stand by his side. She stared in horror at the body; it was no longer a man’s wearing the colours of Aradomoria, but a hulking, twisted shape with coal black skin and crude hide armour.  
“Mor’Heda,” Kor muttered under his breath, his glance secretly falling on Dream with more than just casual concern. “We need to get back to the others – now!”  
The strange sense of urgency in his voice made Dream glance at him curiously, but also told her this was no time for questions. She followed him as he now took the lead, and had to half-run to keep up with his long strides. She no longer paid attention the occasional boulder that whistled overhead; the Aradomorian army camped outside these stout walls had only catapults, but it had been five days now, and Dream could tell she wasn’t the only one itching to get out there and do something.  
“Good, you made it back safely.” Vjelka met them at the barrack gates on her way back to the walls. Her eyes ran over them questioningly; her years on the Warfront had made her sensitive to things amiss, and she quickly saw the line of blood at Dream’s throat, the faint traces of near danger still lingering in her eyes and the firm set of Kor’s shoulders. “What happened?”  
“I need to see Davryan – where is he?” Kor wasted no time with questions.  
Vjelka motioned to the main building with her chin before hurrying away to her place on the wall. But before either three of them could move more than a few steps, a crash from the far side of town, away from the actual siege, froze them in their tracks. A heavy, swirling cloud of dust and debris rose from the wall on that side, slowly drifting skywards. Dream’s breathe caught in her throat as she realized the only thing it could mean, “They’ve broken through behind our lines!” she tossed her satchel to Jarlai, who had come running with Kai’Ryna and Narr-Dok when they heard the crash. “Take it!”  
“My herbs, how did you – Dream! Where are you going?” the healer stumbled over her own words. But there was no time to answer; as Dream’s figure ran desperately down the street towards the dust-cloud, another crash, this time nearby and causing a cry of dismay and warning from those on the wall.  
“The defences!” Vjelka bolted for the gates, even as Talrukas came running from that very direction.  
“The gates!” he gasped, staggering to a halt, “They’re giving in!”  
Davryan and Kyzeinac appeared on the scene, “We must defend this quarter,” the Oath captain ordered firmly, “G’hornad says the other wall was just a diversion and there is no danger from that section.”  
Kor caught the cunning gleam that had flashed across the Dalic’s eyes, and he waited till the others had hurried towards the main gates before acting on his strong suspicion. He grabbed Talrukas by his arm, “Where is your brother?”  
“Talrosas?” the Rukaath’r took a moment to collect his thoughts. “He was watching the flanks with G’hornad.”  
“But G’hornad was just here!”  
Talrukas went pale behind his natural tan, “You don’t think – ” He didn’t finish, but raced after Kor towards the back wall.

Dream braked to a quick halt at the corner of a building and threw herself against the wall as a rush of town militia came bearing down on her, running with all their might. Terror was plain on their features as they passed her without a second glance, and she didn’t stop to question their retreat as she rounded the corner and the wall came into clear view. The wall itself was still standing, but she could see a gaping hole through the stones, through which were pouring creatures of the same kind as the one Kor had killed. Mor’Heda, he had called them. Scattered corpses of militia littered the ground and top of the wall; a sign some at least had stouter hearts then their companions and had stood their ground. But where were G’hornad and Talrosas, who had been on watch here? Dream glanced about frantically.  
A growl from the Mor’Heda, prowling around for survivors, warned her she had been seen, and she slipped back around the corner. Her blade glinted coldly as she unsheathed it, trying to remember all the lessons Kyzeinac and Vjelka had taught her, but in that moment she found she could not focus on them. Another snarl, followed by the clash of steel and the wet rake of blood following the rend of steel through flesh, made her glance up, and her dark eyes widened in fear.  
A Mor’Heda staggered back, bleeding black blood from its slashed torso, while the rest were all surging towards him with grunts and growls of anger. But her eyes were fixed on Talrosas, who holding one of his blades tightly against his chest, was struggling to drag himself away. She couldn’t see exactly where he was wounded, but by the thick trail of blood behind him and the hunched carriage of his shoulders, she knew it was serious.   
“Talrosas!”  
He glanced in her direction, determination never so plain in one’s features, “Dream? What are you doing – get out of here!” he shouted back.  
Part of her wanted to do just that, but she paused, her mind going back over several months to that night she had been too late to save her near-mother. Because she hadn’t been there, people she knew had died, but she was here now, wasn’t she? Her conflicted eyes looked up to see a Mor’Heda stalking towards Talrosas, jagged blade running with blood of the dead about them. in the spur of the moment, barely knowing what she was doing, Dream lunged forward as the blade drew back, and the sharp ring of steel meeting steel jarred the air, and her mind cleared. Her blade had come between the Mor’Heda and Talrosas, and she was now the centre of their cruel attention. “Go!” She urged him, sliding her weapon free and stabbing the Mor’Heda in the chest, ripping her blade out in a wild splash of flaying blood.  
Without waiting to see if he had listened, she ducked under the swooping blade of another Mor’Heda and slashed at the brute’s legs. The others convened on her, and she had no time to see if Talrosas had reached safety, her mind was wholly focused on the Mor’Heda around her, who seemed more interested in trying to grab her rather than kill her. But even their dark and twisted minds felt dismay as one after another fell to the fury of her blade, and they began to give back. The last fell with bleeding legs, and Dream plunged her blade up to the hilt into his tough hide, her ears deaf to the Mor’Heda’s dying roar.  
She staggered back, her surcoat drenched in the blood of the creatures who lay dead at her feet, her blade running from pommel to point in black blood, her eyes burning with a passionate fire awoken from its long slumber and which would now never be quenched. Her chest heaved from the exertions of battle, and her mask, knocked from her face in combat, lay at her feet in a pool of blood. Her deep red hair, shaken loose, flowed past her shoulders like a warbanner. Through all that battle, she had felt her veins burn with a strange, unexplained zeal, and her blood had flamed with a hatred older then the walls around her; and Banrheig was one of the oldest settlements in Aradomoria. She did not know where that strength came from, but she felt as if she had always carried it, and never used it until now, when it was needed.  
Her dark, burning eyes looked up, and saw across the piled corpses, Reorren standing watching her with Talrosas leaning weakly against his shoulder. The immediate fire faded from her eyes at the sight of them, and she felt her blade slip from her numb fingers. Their appearance cleared her battle-fogged mind, and she suddenly realized how tired and worn she was. “Reorren?” her voice sounded far away. “How – Where did you come from?”  
He shrugged as if it didn’t really matter, his eyes more intent on the Mor’Heda lying about than on the fact that the town was under siege. He looked up, “You killed them all?”  
Not expecting an answer of any kind, Dream stared at him as if he wasn’t real. Then her eyes dropped to survey the slaughter at her feet. “I guess I must have.” She admitted in a strange voice, her tone stronger, firmer, more hardened than it had been a few hours earlier. Her eyes strayed to Talrosas, “What happened here? Where is G’hornad?”  
The Rukaath’r lifted his head weakly, and the sightless depths of his eyes pierced into her own burning ones. His voice was hoarse and barely more than a whisper as he choked out, “Dream, G’hornad has betrayed us!”


	22. Chapter 22

A rising growl from the wall checked any answer Dream would have made. She swung around; for a fleeting second she stared up at the huge hulking shape before her and the deep, smouldering eyes, than that ponderous club came sweeping through the air and smashed into her chest. She was thrown backwards, and crashed through the wooden wall of the building behind her just as Kor and Talrukas rushed from the direction of the main gates.  
“Talrosas!” Talrukas’ eyes fell on the form of his brother.  
“Dream!” Kor’Dyran couldn’t hide the sickening wince as her limp body disappeared in a cloud of dust and splinters.  
The Mor’Heda, far larger and stronger than most of his foul kind, turned his malicious gaze towards Reorren and Talrosas; the scent of human blood driving him to maddened rage. The lean scout grabbed the wounded Rukaath’r and threw himself to the side as that deadly club swung once more, the heavy rush of air raising small drifts of light debris. Talrukas would have lunged forward, regardless of his own safety, had Kor not caught his shoulder. “We need to draw his attention away before you can save your brother.” He reasoned in tense, but composed, tones as he unsheathed his sakruux.  
Meanwhile, Reorren had drawn his blade and stood protectively over Talrosas’ sinking form. When the Mor’Heda stepped back for another swing, he ran in under the thick legs, scoring multiple slashes across the tough hide. Sliding out behind it, he sank his blade as deep as he could into the back of the beast’s knee, making it howl with enflamed anger and pain. Kor ran forward; the Mor’Heda swung one arm, catching Reorren off-guard before he could recover from his stroke and tossing him aside carelessly. The assassin sprang onto the out-stretched arm before the beast could draw it back, running lightly up onto its shoulders and stabbing the beast in the back of its neck with both blades. Enraged beyond recall and blinded by its own hatred, the Mor’Heda roared and flung its head back suddenly. Kor lost balance while dodging the flaying arms, and jumped from his lofty, but perilous perch, his blades raking down the beast’s back. Bleeding from numerous wounds which only seemed to insense him further instead of slowing him down, the Mor’Heda swung his ponderous weapon wildly, toppling buildings and sending large splintered beams flying through the air as if they were mere feathers in the wind.  
Talrukas had succeeded in dragging his brother to relative safety, where he had fainted from loss of blood, and was about to rush out to help the others when the end of one beam struck him square against the side of his head. Kor saw him drop without a sound as he picked himself up from the ground, and had to duck beneath the shattered portion of a wall that hurtled dangerously close to him. Suddenly, from seemingly nowhere, the ghostly form of Halcyon leapt from the wall at the Mor’Heda with a deep, shuddering howl. His keen fangs sank into the beast’s thick neck, and his claws buried themselves in the tough dark hide as he worried at the creature’s throat. But his valorous attempt to save his master was cruelly thwarted as the Mor’Heda groped at his neck with one crushing hand; his fingers closed around the giant wolf and wrenched him away with an angry snort. Paralyzed with a strange fear he did not understand, Kor was helpless as the wolf crashed full into him with a strangled yelp that died in a weak, shivering whine. The Mor’Heda growled as he glared about, as if searching for someone, and he turned towards the creaking wreckage of the buildings around him.  
Reorren regained consciousness painfully, his dark eyes falling first towards Kor’s inert figure, half-concealed beneath Halcyon’s limp body, then to the opposite wall where Talrukas had dragged his brother. He saw the Mor’Heda sifting through the rubble, and tried to get up, but sharp pain through his entire frame forced him back down with a groan he could not hold back. At the faint sound, the Mor’Heda swung around with an aroused snort, his beady eyes searching the debris and resting on Reorren, who glanced around in alarm for his sword, which lay just out of his reach; the hilt gleaming from beneath a fallen beam. Desperately he reached out one arm, his fingers straining to grip the pommel. Suddenly a deep shout in Tethdorian from behind the Mor’Heda draw his attention back to the lumbering beast, who had taken a step in his direction.  
Kyzeinac lunged from the shadows of the street, ran up a hill of rubble, and sprang onto the Mor’Heda. His blade, held ready above him point downwards, sank to the hilt into the hide. The beast bellowed, flaying his arms about in vain efforts to dislodge the warrior stubbornly clinging to him, but his movements grew slower, weaker, less calculated. Kyzeinac dropped to the ground as the beast tottered like a crumbling tower, and dived out of the way as it came crashing down on its back with a heavy thud. Drawing his dagger, the Tethdorian leapt onto its chest, evading the clutching hands, and repeatedly stabbed the blade into the Mor’Heda’s neck till the creature howled for the last time and lay still; another stinking corpse among the smaller, perhaps less dangerous, carcasses of the other Mor’Heda that lay about.  
As Kyzeinac jumped lightly to the ground, flexing his dagger in one hand, Ethran’Dalcon staggered into view, quite out of breath. “Vhen you zaid run, you zhould have given me a headztart.” He panted, leaning forward with his hands against his thighs as he sought to regain his breathe. “Maker! Dese Tethdorianz vairly vly vhen dey on de move!”  
“There wasn’t exactly time to admire the scenery.” Kyzeinac replied dryly as he heaved the Mor’Heda aside and, after a few attempts, wrenched his blade free.  
“Are ve in time?” Ethran asked anxiously, peering across the heaps of rubble and debris that spoke of the terrible destruction and raw brute strength of the Mor’Heda. “Or dey all dead?”  
Kyzeinac slipped and stumbled through the rubble till he reached Reorren’s side, clapping a blood-stained hand to his chest. “This one is still alive,” he reported, glancing around for others. “Check those two.” He pointed with his chin to the wall where the Rukaath’r brothers had taken shelter, before making his way gingerly to where Halcyon and Kor lay senseless. The giant wolf rolled his vermeil eyes as he approached and his attempt at a warning snarl ended in a weak whimper as Kyzeinac laid a calming hand on his heaving flanks as he carefully moved him off, and leaned forward to examine Kor. ‘Still alive too,’ he mused to himself, glancing up, his keen yellow eyes sweeping the ruined area. ‘But where is Dream? Jarlai was sure she headed here too.’  
“Deze two are ztill alive, aldough one von’t be unlez ve get him to a healer quickly.” Ethran observed, crouching by Talrosas.  
“Run back to the barracks and bring down some others.” Kyseinac ordered, rising and surveying the wall critically. What were the Mor’Heda doing this far from the Ashen Wastes? It seemed unlikely they would come all this way just for a random raid.  
“Run? Again?” Ethran inquired sinkingly. “But – ”  
“Yes, run!” Kyzeinac turned a sharp eye to him, and the Vakaric wasted no more time but bolted for the street. The Tethdorian wove his way back to Reorren, who seemed more injured than Kor, and wondered vaguely when he had come back from his night-walking without anyone noticing. Turning to search on the other side, he felt his wrist gripped in a weak, but desperate hold, and dropped to one knee as Reorren’s eyelids flickered.  
“Dream,” the usually silent and elusive warrior choked back a groan, his dark eyes focusing bleakly on Kyzeinac’s face. “Find her…”  
“Where?” Kyzeinac leaned closer, straining to hear the broken, pain-racked words that struggled from the scout’s pale lips. “Reorren, where is she?”  
Weakly, he raised his hand and pointed a shaky finger towards the partly-destroyed building directly behind the Tethdorian. A shudder ran through his body, and his arm fell back limply. Kyzeinac lost no time in scrambling over the Mor’Heda corpses and other rubble, and slipping through the gaping crash into the dim, dust-choked room. His quick eye spotted Dream’s blood-drenched and broken body half-buried under debris, and he stepped forward, stoic like all his race to whether she was still living or not.

High King Vorzil paced the balcony of the royal palace in restless thought. His sunken, wizened features were those of a man who has seen much turmoil and trouble in his time, but his tall, erect bearing bespoke of vigour and strength of younger years. His small, narrow eyes flashed impatiently as he stopped his pacing to lean against the balustrade and gaze over the city, shrouded in the soft shadows of twilight. What was this disturbing news his spies brought him from the distant kingdoms? That old King Dyanro had sent his only heir and child away, by road of the Black Marshes, in Aradomoria, where that weak King Ostor was struggling to suppress some new insurgance, and where he had sent his soldiers to seek for the only thing that stood in the way of his secure reign; a direct descendant of the dead, betrayed Escavlor, who was High King before his father, Sateinak. He scowled deeply; so far his men had not found her, and he knew he was only one of many who sought for the Highmourn heir.  
“Troubled, my lord?”   
A cold voice broke into his reverie, and he became aware of a pale blue light shimmering from behind him. He swung around, and stared at the gleaming figure that stood before him; the deep, piercing look of those fathomless eyes burning into his mind. Vorzil frowned at the intrusion into his private quarters, “Who are you?” he demanded impetouesly, “How did you get in here?”  
“None of that concerns you,” the woman replied dismissively, her shining robes rippling in an wind that the High King could not feel. “But if you care to preserve your miserable life, you will order the search for the Highmourn heir to be abandoned.”  
Vorzil laughed sarcasticly, “You are a fool to think I would do such a thing!” he retorted angrily. “I will not rest till her blood soaks the ground, then my throne will be secure. And I certainly won’t bend to any stranger who dares strut about my palace!”  
“You are the son of a traitor and usurper; your throne will never be secure, never be safe.” The Black Lady countered sorrowfully, but with a certain firmness in her tone. She stretched out one hand towards the city, “Your days as High King as numbered, and when they end, remember, that the Dark Scythe offered you a chance of mercy, and you cast it away.” Before Vorzil could reply, the Black Lady disappeared in a blinding flash of light, and he gripped the edge of the balustrade in silent anger. He must send out more! The Highmourn heir must never set foot upon these shores!  
The Black Lady turned to her waiting assassins. “The time has come – find the Iron Dukes in their exile; tell them Bladerelna has endured this tyranny for long enough, and the time has come for the legacy of Sateinak to end.”


	23. Chapter 23

The roadside inn was not the most luxurious Lithandre had seen, but even she could admit it was comfortable and not too shabby; at least it was better than sleeping on the hard ground and gnawing at dried provisions. Gallandrin was to meet them here, and continue on with them as they searched for the second heir, and so the group waited, enjoying the comforts of hot meals and warm beds for as long as they could. Lithandre had already seemed to forget why they had sent out in the first place, but the entrance of Tescar one night, accompanied by the familiar form of the old Binder, brought it all back to her on the instant. She slumped back in her chair with a small frown, knowing this meant they would be moving on in the morning.  
“Well met, my friends!” the seer greeted them all warmly as he approached the table, and he gave Lithandre a wide smile. Kareth silently rose from his chair, as there were no others vacant, and leaned against the wall behind Tarthol. Gallandrin nodded his thanks as he stiffly sat down and smoothed his grey robes with one gnarled hand. He cleared his throat, and his eyes rested vacantly on Lithandre, as if something heavy weighed down on his mind. “Lithandre, it seems that I have never told you the tale of your ancestors, or how the house of Highmourn came to be in exile.”  
“No,” she shook her head.  
“Well then,” the seer settled himself more comfortably in his seat, while Tescar seated himself besides Kisaye. “I must tell you tonight before our journey continues at dawn. But first, do you know any of the old lays?”  
Lithandre looked surprised, but nodded. “I know of a few, but I never bothered much with those reminders of the past.” She admitted with a slight blush in her cheeks.  
“No matter, but I feel in need of a song tonight to help my memory of those olden days.” Gallandrin smiled fondly. “Would you indulge an old man?”  
Lithandre stared at him in wonder, and then glanced about at her other companions in the room; if they had been sitting in the common room below she would have been reluctant to comply, but being in their own room, she nodded. Rising from her seat and going to stand before the hearth, she cleared her throat self-consciously, and first began to hum a soft, slightly mournful but still uplifting tune. After a few faint notes, she changed the tune to a more martial, but still sorrowful and longing, air and began to sing a song that Tescar and Kisaye both knew well, and they exchanged smiles that spoke of long-ago days and shared memories.  
‘Darkness in the west is rising  
A black menace, unspoken dread  
Our hearts waver and flinch with fear  
The skies are stained with crimson red  
And dying rays of the sun fade  
O’er graves of our fallen dead

Oh Knights of the wandering Flames!  
Come when our need is great!

Our hopes and prayers rise to Heaven  
Light lingers in our darkest dreams  
Though days are grim and night remain  
Hindered here by some twisted means  
No rest here beneath frozen stars  
No light to drive away these fiends

Oh Knights of the wandering Flames!  
Hear this our dying plea!

Oh Knights that wander where none else  
Dare to tread either far or near  
Hear our cry in the whispering winds  
Feel the dread of our deepest fears  
As we fall beneath the darkness  
And our souls shatter like rent spears

Oh Knights of the wandering Flames!  
Ride swift beneath the moons!

We cower from our darkest dreams  
Shield us from their cruel hauntings  
We shudder at our deepest fears  
Shield us from their hateful tauntings  
As our blood waters the rivers  
Return from your far wanderings

Oh Knights of the undying Flames!  
Remember now your Oaths!

A darkness rises in the west  
Tainted with life of stolen souls  
Deepened with cries of tortured dreams  
Hearken to our fast fading calls  
That we never cease to utter  
While our beating hearts throb and toll

Oh Knights of that sacred White Flame!  
Stand strong now together!

We see your blades like burning lights  
Carving a path through the shadows  
Your flames are like a thousand suns  
From which your passion, valour flows  
We hear your chants upon the wind  
When in your wake the storm follows’  
“That was very nice, Lithandre.” Kisaye commented as the girl took her seat again. “It brings back memories of when I was on the Warfront myself.”  
“Yes, it is fitting.” Gallandrin agreed, his grave eyes twinkling in the firelight. “A darkness is indeed rising, and SwordSoul will be lost if it is not stopped.” He poured himself some wine from the nearby flagon and stared vacantly into the flames of the hearth, while the others waited, watching him curiously.  
“Roughly fifty-two years ago, the High King of Bladerelna, Escavlor IV Highmourn, was betrayed by his half-brother, Sateinak, and the royal city ravaged by combined hordes of Mor’Heda and Darh’meir drazil. It was on the night that the High Queen Thronas was expecting to give birth after sixteen years since their only child and heir, the valiant prince Jorlandor, was born. The palace grounds and the streets of both the upper and lower city were one great battlefield. Escavlor was murdered by Sateinak himself, but the queen and her son managed to escape the slaughter in the great hall, and escorted by several royal guards, made for the secret passages through the royal crypts. In the palace courtyard though, they came close to being overwhelmed by the Mor’Heda, and it was only due to the sacrifice of Jorlandor and his personal guard that the queen and her remaining escort made it to the crypts.”  
“There they were forced to take shelter while the queen went into labour, and even in all that darkness and chaos light was still with them. The queen gave birth to twin daughters, and as soon as she was strong enough, they had to push on again to safety. But the drazil smelt them out, and followed them into the tunnels, and several guards are killed and the queen wounded. Harried like this, they reach the exit with the queen barely hanging on to life and only two guards left to her defence. Thronas knows she is dying, and charges her remaining guards with the safety of her daughters. Loathe to leave their queen yet forced to do so to escape to Mor’Heda and drazil hard on their trail, the remaining guards; Uridian the Guard Captain and General Az’yuna, flee towards the Moonleaf Forrest.”  
“But heavily outnumbered and ambushed in the eaves, Uridian holds his ground there to give Az’yuna time to escape. Alas! He was overwhelmed, and the General, knowing only too well the grave peril, strapped the twins to her shield and gave it up to the river Swai. She too was slain that bloody night, and no more would have been known if I had not unexpectedly stumbled upon the rest quite a few years after the betrayal of the Highmourn house. I found those daughters, Alrina and Idriana, in a fishing village along the river’s banks; they had been found and cared for by a fisherman and his sons. They told me of how they had been found, cold and shivering, strapped to a shield bearing the royal emblem of Bladerelna, among the rushes of the bank, and I knew at once who they were. I charged their foster-father to keep them safely, for I was then on a mission of great urgency and had no time to pause. How I wish now that I had! For when I returned after a matter or years, both were gone, and I was left to scuffle around for their whereabouts.”  
“Idriana had wedded a young merchant who had passed through the nearby town, and travelled on with him to Hye’Celvinas. It was two years after that, that raiders attacked her home village, and Alrina was among the prisoners they took. She grieved deeply for the loss of her sister, but her sorrow was lifted somewhat by the birth of her son, Escanor, several months later in 346 TA. Sadly, her husband died young from a rare illness, but his family saw to it that Idriana and her son were well cared for, until rumours reached the cruel ears of Sateinak that one bearing the very image of Queen Thronas had been seen. That evil usurper knew than that his throne was imperilled, and the heirs of Escavlor yet lived, and sent his men to kill her and any who knew of her. After a foiled attempt on her life, Idriana realizes she is being hunted by her father’s killer, and takes her husband’s family into her confidence. They agree she can no longer remain in Bladerelna, and arrange passage for her to Tethdoria, where they hope the might of those warrior Clans will protect her. But before they can get aboard the Tethdorian warship, Idriana is poisoned, though the healers manage to keep her alive until they reach the frozen shores of Tethdoria. Once there, she recovers and passes several years in hiding, while her son grows into a fine warrior, fearless and valourous, and in times weds the daughter of Tethdor Halnuran, Runames. Five years later, for the Tethdorians are very precise in their records, the first Blaideish forces invaded the low regions under the orders of Sateinak, who seeks to expand the borders of his ill-gotten kingdom.”  
“There was no scattered fleeing or disorderly defences. The Tethdorian knights stood their ground stubbornly to the last, their blood staining their homelands in torrents. I am told that for every ten Blaideish, one Tethdorian fell, and indeed; they fought for their lands with a fierceness above the call of honour and duty. Halnuran urged Idriana to safer shores even as he musters his knights and leads them to war. Escanor too urged Runames, who had but shortly given birth to twin daughters, to leave in the company of his mother, while he joined the Tethdor on the battlefield. The war was terrible; Tethdoria’s lower regions were ravaged and scorched, and watered with rivers of her own knights’ blood, but in the end, though grim and bitter, the Blaideish were pushed back in a final, desperate assault that cost Escanor his life. Halnuran survived, though gravely wounded, and Sateinak was left to rage bitterly, till his own unreined anger dragged him to grave, and his son Vorzil now reigns.”  
Gallandrin fell silent, and took a long drink to moisten his parched throat, bone-dry from his long talking. Lithandre let out her pent-up breath, her mind wrapped around what the old seer had recounted to her, which Dyanro had never told her in such depths. Her dark eyes remained fixed on the Binder, “What then?” she asked apprehensively. “What happened to Escanor’s wife?”  
He turned to her with a strange slow smile, but his eyes were sad as he sighed heavily. “The warship that carried her and Idriana was caught in a storm, and wrecked off the coast of Amateuth. There were no survivors found, save you – a wet, starved infant among all that tattered wreckage. You became the heir of Amateuth that day, yet you are also the heir to Bladerelna. You carry the blood and lineage of an ancient, strong house many have given their lives for to keep alive, you are one of the few last who bear the name of Highmourn.”  
Lithandre’s eyes rounded, “Escanor was my…father? My real father?”  
“Yes.” The seer nodded. “Dyanro found you, and it was later that I discovered what had befallen your sister Dream.” He went on in absent tones, eyes half-closed. “She was found on the shores of Aradomoria, amid the broken remains of a boat that bore the name of the warship you had both been aboard, by a Knight of the Sacred Flame. The only other survivor was the form of a wasted woman, who I conclude must have been your mother; I think they must have tried to save both mother and children by putting them in the boat, but something must have happened before such arrangements could be finished. Dream was brought to the nearest village, and given into the care of the healer, who was an old Binder I knew.” He paused, sighing again in deep regret. “Eshura did not think it wise to impart upon the child the knowledge of her lineage, and to this day your sister lives in ignorance of who she really is.”  
Lithandre sat back in her chair, her eyes thoughtful. “I never knew all this,” she murmured, half to herself. For several long minutes she sat in absorbed silence, digesting the lore Gallandrin had imparted to her. Rinara had not been the first then, to ensure her survival, there had been many more. And she…she was so selfish as to think of no one but herself, after all the blood and sacrifices others had made!   
“I’ve got to find her then.”


	24. Chapter 24

Reorren gazed down into the still waters of the pool, his form so starkly, horribly, hauntingly reflected in that mirror-like surface. Every night since Banrheig had survived the siege of Ostor’s army, he felt the urge strong in him, and every night since, whenever he could manage to sneak from the infirmary, he came down here to the sheltering trees. Their dark, silent eaves seemed to assure him that in the shadow of their boughs, touched with the first snows of winter, his terrible secret was safe and secure. The thought that he could now slightly control himself so long as he was not enraged by the scent of blood, did nothing to ease the extreme hatred he felt towards himself and this black curse, this Taint as he had heard it called by his former master.  
His former master; the very thought set his blood ablaze. The countless beatings, the verbal and physical abuse, the scorn and taunts he had endured, were nothing compared to what he now struggled with – this beast inside him. With every breath he took, he felt something else inside him take a breath as well, something that was a part of him and yet had a mind of its own. He hated it, and with every day that dawned his desire to be rid of it only heightened, till he felt sure it would drive him mad. But more still, he wanted to see his former master, that oily-voiced bastard, crawling on the floor in pools of his own blood. He wanted to see him suffer for every minute that he made Reorren suffer, and he wanted his death to be slow, slow and agonizing.  
Reorren stared at the savage, wolfish snout and large bat-like ears and cruel slits of vermeil eyes. He didn’t look down; he didn’t need to see the shaggy arms that ended in long, jagged single armclaws capable of tearing men and beasts in pieces with little effort. Yellow fangs, dripping with poisonous saliva that would cause burning, freezing pain in any wound he afflicted with them, gleamed dully in the light of the twin moons. He saw his reflection all too clearly, and with a surge of bitter remorse, was about to turn away in abhorrent disgust when slight movement on the opposite bank made him freeze into place, tense and apprehensive, slitted nostrils quivering as he took deep snuffs of the air.  
From the rustling ferns, the tall, slender form of Dream stepped down to the bank, her dark crimson hair flowing down her shoulders like a river of blood. The moonlight shone down on her black surcoat, outlining the silver emblem of the Oath across the front. She knelt by the water, eyes half-closed and pensive as she gazed at nothing in particular. It was one of those rare occasions when she ventured abroad without seeking concealment behind her traced silver mask, and Reorren was strangely struck with sudden pity as he looked upon the deep, burned scarring that seared across the right side of her face. Even with that ragged mutilation so vivid, there was still a beauty, strong and yet stern, about her features; the grief and haunting regret they had once held now slightly softened through the months and replaced by resolute and enduring determination. Her dark eyes, black as the night skies and piercing as a wolf’s, held in them smouldering embers of inner fire and zeal, easily sparked into a storm of passion should they be goaded, and yet masterfully dimmed to maintain a passive expression. Her slim shoulders, lean arms and slender figure hid the strength and resilience built up over the moons among the Oath; a sharp contrast, Reorren mused, to the stout, well-built frame of Vjelka, whose strength could easily be seen outwardly.  
Suddenly he felt stupid to be eyeing Dream in such a way while in his Tainted form; he felt keenly he had no right to set such a cursed gaze as his own upon such refined, pure features. Besides, he tried to tell himself furiously, he had no real interest in her, she was just another warrior among the Oath, who compared to Jarlai’s irritating nagging and highborn haughtiness, Kai’Ryna’s timid, fleeting glares and Telrona’s non-stop banter, her presence was reasonably bearable. She was often quiet, locked away in her own thoughts, but quick to spring into action when it was needed or to give a word of advice or caution when required. ‘There I go again!’ Reorren growled to himself impatiently, giving himself a mental shake. But it was no use; in truth he could not help but let his thoughts dwell on this girl, about which hung a strange, unreadable mystery no one seemed able to penetrate, not even herself. After the siege, when everyone heard of her deeds at the flank breach, there was nothing but praise and affirmation to her selfless valour and daring. Yet Dream, instead of soaking it all up and revelling in such glory, seemed to deflect it with almost embarrassment.  
Reminder of the siege brought the memory of G’hornad’s disappearance to his mind, and he scowled inwardly. A traitor was what the Dalic turned out to be; according to Talrosas’ account anyway, and certainly no one doubted his words, that after stabbing him in the back, G’hornad had run off even as the first Mor’Heda sprang into the breach. No doubt he was hoping they would make quick work of the sightless warrior, though he seemed to have forgotten how soundly and swiftly he had been bested by the Rukaath’r. No one had been able to find trace or track of him since the siege, and indeed, no one really wanted to. Reorren had seen the silent anger in Talrukas’ eyes though, and shrewdly guessed that things would not go well should the hapless Dalic cross his path in the future. And he himself felt much the same; there was a certain respect he had formed for Talrosas, the calm way in which he accepted his limitations and yet the earnest striving to overcome any obstacles that might rise before him.  
A stir from Dream made him look up, and immediately his gaze was drawn to her eyes. Her face was slightly raised to stare absently over the treetops, and the moonlight fell in sharp rays across her face, illuminating her dark eyes with an intense blue-white light that certainly was not from the moons. Reorren felt the Taint in his blood writhe and twist convulsively at the sight of that light, and a freezing dread took shape in his mind – not his mind though, but the other thing, the Taint. Yes, he felt it quiver and cower the longer he stared at Dream’s eyes, and faint, searching hope, mixed with suspicion, trickled into his mind. Who was she really? And what was this strange light she held that seemed to strike terror into the very heart of his cursed blood?  
He did not know the answers, though he burned with a sudden, compelling desire to find out. But the pain that tore through his blood grew too strong and a soft, tight snarl escaped his thin, wolfish lips, which pulled back from his yellow fangs. Dream started, and one hand drew back instinctly to grasp the hilt of her sword, sheathed at her back, while her light-filled eyes prowled along the edges of the pool, searching the foliage. Maybe it was the crimson glint of his eyes, or maybe it was the moonlight making his large, slightly hump-backed form darker against the natural shadows, or maybe she heard the wet rasp of his breathing; Reorren didn’t have time to ascertain which one gave him away. The next minute, Dream had risen and her blade rang with an icy coldness as it slid with fluid from the scabbard. The girl stood poised, staring straight at him – straight into his blazing vermeil eyes.  
Slowly, deliberately, she raised her free hand till her hand was level with her shoulder, and her fingers curled slightly inwards as the same blue light that shone from her unblinking eyes, appeared in the crook of her curved fingers. Before Reorren could think of what she was doing, she thrust her arm forward, and the intense brilliance lanced out into the close-hanging shadows, driving them back and setting the surface of the pool alight with shimmering blue and white flames that danced before Reorren’s blinded eyes as he cringed from that burning sensation that he felt worming its way through him, working its way towards his mind, towards the Taint that held him prisoner in its cruel, unrelenting grip. Anguish tore through his inner being, and he could endure it no more.  
With a shuddering shriek that made blood freeze in veins and leaves quiver in feeble, helpless dread, he broke from the cover of the trees and loped away, every hair on his body flattened down against his skin. He didn’t need to turn to know Dream was in swift pursuit; his keen ears picking up the rhythmic tread of her boots upon the turf. He knew it was a vain attempt, no one could keep pace with him in this form, however cursed it was and no matter how fleet of foot his hunters were. But he under-estimated the girl’s resolve. Something whined through the air, and sharp pain jabbed up his right hindleg; sharp and acute pain that made a howl of angered hurt bake from his lips and his pace faltered as he stumbled in his stride. He threw an irritated glance over his shoulder, and saw that Dream was still hard behind him, though losing ground despite his injury, which he felt hampering his loping gait every second that ticked by.  
The thing he dreaded most happened; his keen scent caught the whiff of his own blood, and a cruel red glare, deeper than the vermeil shades of his glance, entered his eyes. He struggled against the hunger that crawled up his throat, soaking his fangs with liquid and causing his Tainted nature to crave for the metallic taste of hot blood and the wet warmth of newly-torn flesh. He couldn’t, he just couldn’t turn on his own companions! Not her, not Dream! Panicking and feeling himself swiftly losing control, he screamed desperately through his mind, ‘No, no! Leave me alone!’ He had stopped running now, and was hunched over, jaws gagging as he panted and gulped down on his own saliva, shivering convulsively as he felt the urge to feed growing stronger, more powerful, harder to resist. He didn’t look up, he was afraid to even glance at her in case his taint lashed out before he could attempt to pull it back in. The thought to shift back never once crossed his pain-racked and frightened, no – terrified, mind.  
‘Who are you? What are you?’  
The voice that echoed in answer through his head made him jerk up as if stabbed to the heart. Dream stood a mere step away, her blade lowered but still ready should he make any sudden movements. The blue light still burned in her eyes, and the faintest glance sent him grovelling on the ground, whining and growling in turn, writhing as though racked with a thousand torments. How could she…answer him? How had she heard what he had never uttered out loud? He whined shrilly, unsure whether he was delusional or not.  
‘Who are you?’  
The question was repeated, more adamant, demanding an answer. Reorren sighed deep within himself; if the terrible truth must be shown at last, he would rather it be infront of Dream than any other among the Oath. With an effort that felt like it wrenched his heart from its resting place and tore a great rift through his bleeding soul, Reorren reared up with a ripping scream, denying the Taint its bloodlust as he shifted back. His lean body fell forwards limply, his lungs gulping for breath and his sides heaving with exhaustion. His fingers clutched helplessly at the short stubs of grass as he heard the audible gasp from Dream and the sudden movement as she stepped back, no doubt for a blow that would end his miserable existence and forever still that gnawing, dire urge he so hated, and yet was powerless to stand against. But the blade he was expecting to thrust him to the ground never came.  
“Reorren?” Dream’s voice was raw with horror and pity – none of which he felt he deserved. “What happened? Who did this to you?” The hard, earnest tone in which she spoke told Reorren she was more than ready to mete out justice on whoever had dared move against one of the Oath.  
He shut his eyes, wishing he could shut out the sympathy he heard all too clearly in her voice, knowing how close he had come to ripping her throat out. “It doesn’t matter.” He replied once he had managed to find his voice. The way his words shook as they left his mouth startled him, and he gave himself a mental kick, hoping to rally his shaken senses. Why was he breaking down anyway? All through those long, bitter years as slave, the gruelling months in hiding when he had escaped, the moons spent with the Oath, he had weathered it all with stoic resignation. Why now? Why in the presence of this girl? She was nothing to him…or wasn’t she? He groaned, almost wishing he would just stop thinking altogether, wanting to crawl into some corner somewhere and shut himself away from it all.  
“Of course it matters!” she replied passionately, almost sharply. He felt her hand on his trembling shoulder, and half wanted to shrug it off. He could take care of himself. He could solve his own problems without others prying into his affairs. He stopped himself, very much wishing he could trust someone to help him, for in his deepest heart and soul, he knew he’d never find a way out of this living nightmare alone.  
He took a quavering breath and looked up, the light in her eyes almost blinding him, and he felt his blood grow cold. “Please, that light…” he gasped weakly, “…it burns!”  
“Hm? Oh, I’m so sorry!” Dream’s voice was contrite as she realized what was bothering him, at least one of the things. “Why does it burn?” she asked softly, her eyes returning to their natural dark embers. Reorren pulled himself into a sitting position, wincing as his thigh felt like a piece of hot iron had been pressed against it. Although he could not see in the darkness, Dream reddened as she noticed, and abrupt pain sprang up in her eyes. “Your leg…” she began, but Reorren shook his head.  
“It’s nothing…compared to what I would have done…to you, if…if I hadn’t been able to change back.” He explained quietly, fully expecting her to either turn around and walk away forever, or run him through right then and there. To his blank surprise, she sheathed her sword and lowered herself cross-legged beside him. He felt the blood rush to his brow at having a girl sitting so close to him, so close he could have brushed elbows with her.  
“I’m glad you didn’t.” she replied, her tone unreadable. She turned to look at him, and their eyes met through the darkness; one cold and empty, harsh to the world, the other burning with the warm fires of purpose and belonging. “What was that…form you took?”  
“I don’t know,” he quickly looked down, her eyes making him feel strange, like he wasn’t actually there. “The one who did this,” his eyes narrowed to hide the pain and hatred, which instead dripped from his words like wine runs from the grapes in the vats, “my former master, he called it the Taint…a curse to remind me that I am nothing…a bastard!” The word was choked fiercely from his lips, his face contorted with raw, unbound hatred and anger. His hands clenched by his sides, and he shut his eyes, feeling the icy flames of the only two emotions he knew brim his eyes.  
Dream continued to watch him, her eyes shining black spheres of sorrow and empathy. “The Taint,” she repeated slowly with a frown, somehow the word was distasteful to her, and seemed to pull at something buried deeply in the back of her mind, something she could not recall. “I don’t know, but I feel that I should know what it is, yet I can’t remember. Is there a cure?”  
“If I knew, don’t you think I would have run to it by now?!” Reorren suddenly swung round to face her, his voice shrill with desperation and incredulity. It was the only time Dream had heard him raise his voice from the usual quiet, deep tones he usually spoke in, and a little hurt, she shrunk from him. “But you,” he turned flashing eyes, filled with cruel loathing she little deserved, to her again, “What would you know? I’ve had to live with this…this beast, most of my life! It’s part of me now! I hate it and I hate him!”  
Dream dropped her eyes, visibly hurt by what he had said and yet trying hard to conceal it. “I’m sorry,” she murmured softly, her voice so full of apology that Reorren was smitten. “I was only trying to help you.”  
The scout’s shoulders sagged limply, and he groaned to himself. ‘Idiot!’ he scolded wordlessly, ‘Why can’t you just admit you’re hopeless on your own?’ Aloud, all he could manage was a subdued, “I know.” They sat in silence for several minutes, the twin moons reaching their zenith and beginning their descent with regal pace and unmoved faces. Once Dream turned from observing the ridged peaks in the distance to find Reorren staring at her through the darkness, his gaze not exactly uncomfortable, but questioning.  
“You won’t tell the others?” he asked once, furtively.  
She drew her lips in a thin line, eyes steady. “I won’t…if you let me help you.”  
A deep, reluctant sigh of indrawn breath. “Alright.”


	25. Chapter 25

Lithandre stayed close, wedged between Tescar and Kisaye as the small group, with Gallandrin at the head, made its way through the streets of Akhaveth, a large town tittering with the latest piece of juicy gossip that was no secret in all Aradomoria. King Ostor’s army had been defeated, routed and the survivors straggling home in shame and humiliation, by a small band of former slaves and poorly trained militia, most of them former slaves as well or commoners. Many were the joking laughs and pointed jests made over this news, though of course the people were careful to not show their amusement when in the presence of nobles, or to the king’s face. There was a certain air, of conspiracy and support for these daring, defiant warriors who called themselves the Oath, that hung heavy over the common folk who heard this, and it seemed to swirl and linger in the air around Lithandre and her companions as they made their slow, unobserved passage through the town towards the market square.  
Their search for Dream had dragged on for several weeks now; the first moon of winter had taken firm hold over the kingdom, and trudging from town to town through the ever-deepening snow was wearing at Lithandre’s patience. But she bit her lip in resigned forbearance and kept walking. This town was little different from the others they had passed; the same narrow, filth-lined streets, poorly-constructed houses and wide, noisy market square. The people looked the same too, their homespun and rough garb indicating their lowborn status. They looked no different from the slaves Lithandre saw scurrying about with vacant eyes and only a few scant rags to cover their worn, emaciated bodies. Ocassionally a highborn, carried aloft on a laced and curtained litter if they were a woman or sitting astride a fine-blooded horse if they were a man, would appear somewhere ahead in the crowd. The slaves that attended them looking more like starved, chained dogs then actual people, and the commoners would scramble to clear the road, muttering under their breath once they had passed on. Lithandre looked after the nobles with disgust, while she felt a pathetic pity for the commoners that milled about.  
“Maybe we should inquire into this Oath the people here seem so enraptured about.” Tescar suggested in low tones as the small group halted to discuss the current futility of their search. “If the second heir escaped the fate of her village and guardian, maybe she fell among them.”  
Gallandrin frowned as he leaned on his staff and surveyed the bustling square with keen eyes. “From what we have heard, the Oath does seem to be on everyone’s lips.” He agreed slowly. “But I do not hope to find her among their number.”  
“Why not?” Lithandre asked in surprise.  
“Their cause is doomed to end in death.” The seer replied shortly, as though the question annoyed him. “But I guess we could extend our search in that – ”  
He was about to say more, but Tescar suddenly nudged him and pointed with his chin across the square, “Look there.”  
They all turned to where he indicated, and Lithandre drew in her breath sharply. Standing near the edge of the general bustle and commotion of the market, a tall, cloaked figure waited astride a ebony-flanked horse. At his side, and muzzle very nearly level with the horse’s upper neck, sat a ghostly blue wolf, vermeil eyes watching the crowd with false languidity. Three other horses waited by the single rider, showing he was not alone in the town. They shifted their hooves in the snow, tails lashing their flanks impatiently.  
“I’ve seen that wolf before.” Lithandre whispered, images of the dark-clad assassins flashing through her mind. “In the great hall of Wolf’s Bastion.”  
“Our enemy is here before us.” Gallandrin nodded, his voice harsh and grim. “Let us hope that their search has been as fruitless as our own.”  
As he spoke, another cloaked figure detached itself from the crowd and came to stand by the rider. They seemed to converse; the rider leaning low in the saddle to hear better and the second figure motioning towards the crowd and nodding. They turned slightly as a rush of wind swept through the town; the figure’s cloak flapped back, revealing the white emblem of an upright, winged sword embroidered down the front of the figure’s deep blue surcoat. But that’s not what fixed Lithandre’s gaze so rigidly on the figure, what really made her stare was the traced silver mask that completely concealed the figure’s facial features. All she could see was two narrow slits for eyes, and even these seemed shrouded by shadow.  
“That’s not the sigil they bore before.” She noted, indicating to the revealed emblem.  
“No…it’s not,” Tescar agreed slowly.  
Suddenly the wolf’s crimson glare flickered towards them, and he must have growled or something, for the rider quickly glanced in their direction. He didn’t seem to bring their attention to the other figure, but sat watching them quietly. The approach of two other figures ended his vigil, and as the three swung astride their horses and gathered up the reins, he threw an almost taunting glance back at them before wheeling his horse about. The wolf curled back his lips and snarled in silence as he whisked around and followed the riders.  
“That did not seem to be a good sign for us.” Kareth observed as they watched the riders move down the street.  
“Seems to be some sort of commotion up there.” Tarthol added when none of the others answered the Tyth’Kadarshi. In truth, Gallandrin was deep in troubled thought, while Tescar and Kisaye were having a quick, whispered conversation over Lithandre’s head; the princess herself so engrossed in watching the riders that she did not notice.  
Shouting erupted from further up the street and mingled with the rough ejaculations in Aradomorian, the cry of ‘Oath’ in Blaideish resounded through the narrow streets. The riders came dashing back, their prancing steeds kicking up snow as they tossed their manes wildly and skittered about. Bands of soldiers burst from the streets all around, and the commoners, with shouts of derision directed to the armoured men, backed away with dark murmurs and scowls. The soldiers ignored them, pointing their naked blades at the four riders and ordering them to surrender in the king’s name.  
The wolf threw back his head and howled at the overcast sky, the terrible sound shaking the ground and making the soldiers cower in sudden fear. The masked rider urged their horse forward while yelling something to the others. The cold ring of steel as a blade slid from the sheath seemed to send unbidden chills of dread up Lithandre’s neck, and she turned in horror to see the masked rider drop purposefully from the saddle. The other riders, holding back for a few seconds, spurred their horses away at a second order from their dismounted companion, whose gaze never left the soldiers. The wolf remained, fur flat against its flanks and ears pulled back while its armour seemed to shimmer with light.  
“What is he doing?” Lithandre asked in uneasy tones, “Surely he’s not thinking of taking those men on alone?”  
“It is the Oath’s business, lass.” An old, wheezy voice broke in quite unexpectantly. An aged man from the town had come to stand by them, leaning on a short, stubby stick. “The men of the king know they come here often from Banrheig, and because they could not take that town, they try to hinder them here.”  
The seer stirred as if struck, “Banrheig, you say?” he repeated, “Is that the Oath headquarters?”  
“Indeed friend,” the stranger nodded. He glanced over them curiously, “You are not from Aradomoria. Strangers asking for the Oath, eh?”  
A uproar from the square cut the conversation into abrupt halves, and Lithandre spun around to again focus her gaze on the lone warrior. The Oath had engaged the soldiers who had surged forward, counting on an easy apprehension, and now dismayed at the fierce onslaught of warrior and wolf, they began to scatter with wild yells while their offices tried to rally them again with loud curses. Lithandre, frozen to the spot, could not draw her eyes away from the blood-soaked ground upon which the Oath warrior stood, blade running with crimson drops. In that instant, the warrior looked up, and a splash of blood across the silver mask trickled down the smooth surface like a lone tear, as though the warrior wept in silence over the blind arrogance and misled thoughts of the royal soldiers. Then, with a flick of the Oath’s dark cloak, they were gone, and the square stood empty, except for the bodies of the fallen men and the blood pools in which they lay.  
The soldiers still alive scattered in panic as they were chased down by the enraged commoners, who threw stones and clods of dirt after in the wake of their retreat. Gallandrin drew his companions aside, “We must go to Banrheig and search for the second heir among the inhabitants. If she is among the Oath, we must do all we can to induce her to leave them.” He frowned as he glanced towards the market square. “Being among them will only lead to her death.”  
“But if the Dark Scythe have infiltrated their ranks,” Kisaye ventured softly, “will they not warn them against us, since that wolf saw us?”  
The mention of the Dark Scythe did not improve the seer’s mood, and he shuffled away, muttering under his breath words that the others could not understand. They found the town stables, and were able to procure enough mounts for themselves, as well as directions to Banrheig. The stablemaster eyed them curiously as they rode away, and after the ridge hid them from view, he hurried into his house and hastily scribbled a note. With all the speed he could muster, he made his way through the crowded streets, where the people still harried the king’s men, to the messenger post. As he watched the hawk, with his message secured inside the silver cylinder, wing its way northwards, he smiled to himself. “If they mean trouble, they won’t get the pleasure of catching the Oath by surprise.” He murmured, trudging back to the stables.

“Soldiers in Akhaveth?” Davryan looked up from surveying the latest news from several other Oath bands operating in certain regions throughout Aradomoria. He glanced at Kyzeinac and Ethryder, then back to Kor and Ethran’Dalcon, “Were there many of them?” he inquired calmly, the news of the towns liberated in other regions still vibrant in his mind.  
The Vakaric rubbed his narrow chin and squinted his luminous eyes, “Vell, dere did zeem to be quite a vew ov dem.”  
“About a score, Captain.” Kor put in more directly. “Dream would have taken care of most, and those who fled will no doubt feel the stirring discontent of the inhabitants.”  
Davryan nodded, “Very good, though I don’t like the idea of her remaining behind.” He commented with a slight frown, more of concern than reproof.  
“Halcyon is with her.” Kor assured him.  
The Oath captain’s expression cleared at that, and he smiled with ease of conscience. “I must be away for several days; a contact among the Oath wishes to meet me to discuss information he didn’t trust to written words. Ethryder, I trust you to oversee matters here in my absence.”  
“Of course,” the former Knight agreed.  
“Kyzeinac and Kor, you’ll both be accompanying me.” Davryan went on further as he swung a heavy, fur-lined cloak over his shoulders. A brisk wind howled outside, and the flying snow made the air even colder than it really was.  
“Now?” Kyzeinac arched an eyebrow.  
Davryan nodded, and the two warriors had little choice but to follow him down to the stables. As they left by one gate, Dream and the wolf entered by the other and made her way straight to the barracks. Reorren and Talrukas were practising archery in the courtyard as she dismounted by the frozen fountain, and she watched them for several minutes before attending to her horse. With a gauntleted hand, she broke though the thin ice, and washed the blood from her mask while her dark bay stallion slurped at the icy waters.  
“Where’s Kor and Ethran, and Jarlai?” she asked, seeing the two had paused in their practising to retrieve their spent arrows. Halcyon nosed at the fountain, and took a few laps, his eyes roving the courtyard for signs of his master.  
Talrukas pulled an arrow from the straw dummy and eyed the head critically before answering, “Kor left with Davryan and Kyzeinac a few minutes ago. Ethran is inside.”  
“Davryan left?”  
“To meet vhid a mezzenger vrom de Oathz.” Ethran himself replied, striding from the entrance and wiping traces of mead from his chin with the back of his hand. “Iz good you back savely. De zoldierz?” he asked.  
Dream turned to unsaddle her patient mount. “Most are dead, the others scattered, but I don’t think they’ll make it far.” As she straightened up from unbuckling the girth strap, her unseen eyes met Reorren’s questioning look, and she gave a slight nod. She waited till Ethran had left, and Talrukas had gathered up his gear and headed in saying he was getting too cold to aim right, before divulging what she had managed to learn. Reorren said nothing, but his eyes were burning with questions that needed no words to voice them.  
“I search through the library there, but couldn’t find anything of use.” She informed him, “But there’s an old herbalist who lives on the edge of town; he has several old books on the earlier ages, and he said I could come back later and look through them.”  
“Later?” Reorren asked, puzzled.  
Dream nodded, “Kor was waiting for me, and Ethran and Jarlai had finished their business too.” She explained in lowered tones. “But if you like, we could go now.”  
He hesitated, but then gave a quick nod. “You just unsaddled your horse.” He observed, and Dream, looking very closely, could see the faintest ghost of a smile curl his lips for a very brief instant. She nodded, feeling a bit absent-minded.  
“It’s not far, we could walk.”  
Reorren glanced at the overcast sky, weighing her suggestion carefully against the unpredictable weather of winter’s first moon. He glanced back to Dream, and nodded slowly. “Let’s walk then.” Halcyon watched them leave through narrowed eyes, and since Kor did not appear to be able to keep an eye on this second child, he took it upon himself to follow at their heels. Nightwish, who had been dozing on a barrel lid, now frisked forward with a sharp yip, and had to skip ahead to keep up with the wolf’s tireless pace.


	26. Chapter 26

The alarmed flutter of a crow from the bare limb of a nearby tree alerted the riders that not all was well beneath the forrest eaves. Davryan twisted in the saddle to ask Kyzeinac something, when a thin shadow streaked past his shoulder and a dull thunk vibrated through the icy air. Kor’s horse shied back with a shrill whistle, and Davryan saw a long-shafted arrow quivering back into focus, half-buried in the trunk of a pine. Above the cold ring of steel being drawn, came the cries of soldiers as a band of them, bearing the livery of King Ostor, descended from the trees on either side of the road.  
‘Ambush!’ the word flashed through Davryan’s mind as he unsheathed his own weapon, not even stopping to consider how close that arrow had come to piercing his throat. Kor and Kyzeinac had both dashed forward to cut off the soldiers, preventing them from reaching their leader. Numbers fell to their blades, but it must have been a carefully planned ambush, for the Aradomorian troops kept pouring onto the road from the forrest where they had lain in concealment. From the cover of the trees, archers rained down their arrows on the three riders, till the long shafts covered the ground as thickly as weeds.  
Davryan’s horse suddenly screamed; sinking down on its haunches and yet struggling valiantly to rise again. Blood ran from the deep gash that cut down its neck, and the Oath leader slipped from the saddle just as the beast crashed down with a rending cry. The soldiers surged forward, encouraged by the fall of the horse and eager to accomplish their mission. The once-white snow now lay stained with the blood of the fallen, and the roadside was a scene of hacked bodies and trampled underbrush. Davryan lost count of how many he had slain; his arm felt stiff and his fingers refused to budge from his swordhilt as he fought on. Out of the corner of one eye, he saw Kyzeinac go down with his thrashing, kicking horse, and the dark-clad figure of Kor was lost in a churning swarm of soldiers.  
Sharp pain stabbed through his back. He faltered, his right arm suddenly going limp and numb. With a sudden surge of unknown strength, as the soldiers closed in, he severed down several more before the strain of his wounds forced him to his knees. His eyes strayed across the blood-soaked ground, searching for the familiar forms of his companions. Instead, his gaze fell on the still form of his horse nearby, and the unseeing, white glare of its lifeless eyes swam before him, like a thin, brief window into what lay ahead of him. Revolt against such a fate forced him back to his feet once more, and he swung his sword, falling with its stroke as the blade cleaved through one soldier. A heavy fist slammed into the side of his head, and strong arms wrenched his weapon roughly from his stiff grip. Davryan’s mind fell into darkness, and the last thing he remembered was an iron boot shoved against his side, and a howl in the distance that sounded so very far away and remote.  
Kyzeinac awoke in darkness, and for a short minute he thought he was back in the grim, tight confines of the Aradomorian slaveship, tossed about on storm-goaded waves. But the heavy weight against his chest brought him back to reality, and he heaved upwards; the dead bodies of two soldiers tumbling back and an audible snap breaking the silence that hung over the sight of the ambush. The Tethdorian bit back a groan as the broken end of the arrow clattered to the ground, and a thin trickle of blood oozed from the wound in his leg. Scrambling to his feet, his eerie yellow eyes ran over the bodies, hurriedly yet with no visible anxiety.   
The sky, overcast when they had left Banrheig, was now darkened and the soft shades of twilight settled over the road and surrounding snow-shrouded forrests. The pools of blood lay dried upon the hard, frozen dirt of the road, and the bodies of the soldiers were stiff and unbending, left where they had fallen while their companions had hurried off with their prize. Arrows projected from the ground like so many thorns, their long, barbed shadows stretched cruelly thin across the field of conflict. There was no wind, and a few flakes drifted half-heartedly from the sky.  
Kyzeinac stumbled over the bodies, searching for his companions. He did not call out their names. He did not madly scramble to and fro in panic. He did not slump down in dismay and self-pity. Methodically, slowly, step by painful step, he bent to check each body and any that might be buried underneath in silence. Not the silence of resignation, or despair, or even bitterness at what had befallen them, but the silence of one who accepts what comes and pushes onwards with desperate determination.   
Heaving aside the body of a soldier, he sank back as a wave of weakness from his wounds passed through his muscular, hardened frame. The figure to his right moved slightly, and Kor’s eyes flickered open with cautious slowness; eying Kyzeinac as if unsure whether he was friend or foe. “Davryan?” he asked hoarsely as soon as he had recovered senses enough to speak. Pushing himself up into a sitting position, he yanked an arrow from his shoulder and tossed it away in contempt while surveying the corpses about them.  
“They took him.” Kyzeinac replied with a calmness any other would have gaped at in astonishment. He got to his feet unsteadily, and retrieved his sword from the ground.  
Kor had to use a nearby tree as support as he slowly, stiffly got to his feet, and he looked haggard and spent under the light of the newly-risen moons. Blood and dirt stained his dark leather, and the white emblem of the Oath was now discoloured and barely visible. He favoured one leg, and his left arm hung close to his lower torso.  
Eying him critically, Kyzeinac had to admit this warrior, who had come to the Oath of his own accord though somewhat suspiciously, was at least disciplined and weathered to hardships. “It will be a long run, tracking them horseless.” He observed, sliding his sword into his sheath and gazing down the road where the heavy tramp of armoured boots had left a clearly-seen trail.  
Kor caught the unspoken question in the Tethdorian’s remark, and bent stiffly to secure his sakruux. “Then we best get started without any further dally.” He replied stoutly, his voice already stronger. His eyes met Kyzeinac’s, and he read kindled respect in the Tethdorian’s gaze. Suddenly his keen ears picked up the muted pad of heavy paws through the snow, and the quick step of boots. He barely had time to prepare to himself before the ghostly form of Halcyon burst from the trees and snow and all but crashed full-pelt into him with smothered whines and anxious snuffling. If Kor didn’t know the giant wolf better, he would have thought the beast was actually worried about him.  
“What happened here? Where is Davryan?” the voice of Dream made him look up from the wolf’s concerned eyes. Dream stood on the edge of the road, with Reorren a few steps behind her and Nightwish peering from around his boot, surveying the scene of slaughter with the tempered gaze of a warrior.  
“Ambush – Aradomorian thukanda kith’arta!” Kyzeinac replied, reverting back to his own tongue with vivid contempt in his voice. His people did not look with favour upon ambushes; they preferred a frontal approach as more fitting for true warriors. Dream did not understand what he said, but she gathered that his words did not speak kindly of Aradomorian tactics. “Davryan has been taken by the enemy.”  
Halcyon growled, showing his fangs, and Kor nodded. “We – Kye and I – are going to follow them.”  
“Not alone, you’re not.” Dream countered firmly. “You’re both injured, and even if you weren’t, they would have a heavy guard on him. I am not questioning your skill, I just think it would be better if perhaps you had a little help.”  
What might have been a smile lurked on the edge of Kyzeinac’s passive expression, as he nodded in answer to the questioning look Kor cast at him. “A powerful Tethdor once said, ‘A wise warrior will not scorn aid in dark hours, even though it may be weaker than his own, for he fights better who knows that one stands with him to strengthen his resolve’.” He glanced at Dream, “And she certainly is not lacking in skill herself.”  
Kor agreed with a slight incline of his head. “How did you know about this?” he indicated to the road, littered with bodies, curiously.  
Dream turned to Reorren briefly before answering, and Kyzeinac caught the barely perceptible nod the young scout gave her. “Reorren and I were on the edge of town looking into something when Halcyon started to howl. Then he bolted off, and we followed.”   
“Convenient…” Kor muttered under his breath, but was careful to ensure his tone was unheard by the others.  
Halcyon gave him a reproachful look. ‘Do not think lightly of the Black Lady’s gift to you, First of the Scythe. Remember that I am here to see that you remain able to serve her will.’ The wolf’s voice murmured through the assassin’s mind.  
Meanwhile Reorren had examined the tracks left by the soldiers, and straightened up with an unreadable expression on his face. “Difficult to count their number…more than score though.” He reported his findings to the others. “All on foot, going at a swift pace. Storm coming.” He added with a glance at the darkening sky and the sudden rise of a chilling wind that raced through the trees and whipped aside all in its path.  
“Then let’s be off.” Kyzeinac ordered grimly.


	27. Chapter 27

“Might I inquire,” the cracked voice of the herbalist made Dream and Reorren look up from their whispered conversation near the back of his hut where he kept his old tomes and records of long-ago years, “what it is you are looking for? I may very well be able to assist you.” His sharp eyes flicked from one to the other as they hesitated, and he waited with a patient, reserved expression.  
Dream searched Reorren’s face, silently wondering whether they should trust this stranger with their problem. “A cure…” she answered uncertainly.  
“Oh? There are many cures, for many ailments.” The old man replied with a brief, amused chuckle as he limped back to his hearth and stirred a thick paste bubbling over the small fire. “You will have to be a bit more plain, my child.”  
To Dream’s surprise and wonder, Reorren took the plunge and stepped forward with more boldness than she had ever thought him capable. Steel flashed in the shaft of sunlight that streamed in from the only window in the whole dwelling as he drew his dagger; pulling off the gauntlet from his left hand, he drew the blade across the palm of his hand and held it out. “Is this plain enough?” He asked, black blood trickling from the slight cut and running in between his fingers. Dream had barely recovered from his forwardness, but the sight of his blood, the unusualness of the colour, took all words from her lips.  
The herbalist looked up, and his eyes immediately widened with a sickening look of recognition as he saw it. Setting aside his ladle, he came forward and took Reorren’s hand gingerly in one of his own gnarled ones. After a long, careful look, he sighed heavily. “How did this come to you, boy? Were you bitten?” he asked knowingly.  
Reorren’s dark eyes went even darker, and he shook his head. “No, it was forced on me…many years ago.” Dream could tell he was trying to restrain his bitter hatred, but she could still hear it in his voice. But what touched her heart was the evident pain and regret mingled in with the hatred; pain she had not sensed before.  
“Forced?” the old man repeated. He gave them both a keen scrutiny, and his furrowed brow cleared somewhat. “Ah, I see now, you are both Blaideish, not native to these quarters.” He nodded to himself, “Forced, by your master?”  
Reorren nodded, wordless.  
“The blood of the Shrykar…” the herbalist went on almost absently. “…it brings on the effects of the Taint and the victim is helpless to stop it unless the proper help is attained.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “A terrible curse, very terrible.”  
The words ‘Shrykar’ and ‘Taint’ jabbed at something buried deep in Dream’s mind, something she could not place or recall. She came closer, till she was behind Reorren’s shoulder. “What are the Shrykar?” Even as she asked, she felt that somehow she should know without having to make such an inquiry.   
“They were a blight on all SwordSoul during the First Age.” The old man replied heavily. “And the BladeStryders were the only ones who could stand against them.”  
BladeStryders? Dream felt a sharp pain in the back of her head, deep down, and she winced. Why? Why all these strange words that seemed to pull on something tightly wedged beyond her grasp? She looked up to see Reorren’s dark eyes on her, full of puzzled questions. But when the herbalist spoke again, they both focused on him.   
“Have you ever turned?”  
“Turned?” Reorren sounded blank, but then realization dawned on him, and he gave a slow nod. “Yes…I have.” He admitted quietly.  
The herbalist nodded sympathetically. “It is a urge few can resist, and the longer it is resisted the…”  
“…stronger the urge.” Reorren finished in a ghostly voice. His dark eyes flickered with the horror and fear he had always kept safely hidden from sight of others. “I know…I know the irresistible strength behind that call…I almost…’ – his eyes glanced at Dream almost hesitantly – ‘…killed her in such a state.”  
Dream laid a hand on his shoulder, her eyes brimming with pity. “One of us would have killed the other.” She confirmed softly, gently, as if to dampen the blow of her words.  
“The burning light in her eyes…that stopped me, her words in my head.” Reorren recounted hoarsely.  
The old herbalist blinked, astonished. “Wait! What light? You spoke to him, through his mind while he was in the Tainted form?”  
“I guess I must have…but I felt him cry out in my mind too.” Dream replied, mystified at his sudden excitement.  
The old man gazed at her for several long minutes, then focused on Reorren. “I must see the truth in this for myself – it would tell me much of what you must do.” He asserted firmly. “Do not worry,” he replied in answer to the horrified look Reorren gave him, “I know what I am dealing with, and what I am asking.”  
Dream was sure Reorren would refuse, so deep was his hatred and resentment for the curse he carried; but when she saw the eruption of heavy, sickly-black shadows and heard the rending of flesh and the deafening shriek, she knew she had been mistaken. By daylight, though the light in the hut was dim, the larger-then-man-height beast that reared before her looked just as terrifying as it had by night. The bat-like vermeil eyes, the heavy wolfish jaws and snout, the short, thick neck, the powerful hunched limbs and gleaming arm-claws, the hulking, slightly-stooped frame covered in short, tough greyish hairs all combined to form a beast that had no place in the living realm. No sooner had Dream taken in all these terrifying features, than she suddenly felt a unexplained surge through her veins, and a strong desire to plunge her blade through that creature’s black, twisted heart. Her hand was on her swordhilt before she realized it, and only the cold scream of drawn steel brought her back to her senses. The beast writhed and cowered before her, and thin, shrill whimpers broke from the frothing jaws.   
Reorren could stand the light in her eyes no longer, for it seemed to burn into his very soul. He shifted back, gasping for breath and staring at the half-drawn blade with almost eagerness in his eyes. Halcyon, who had been zealously soaking the warmth of the hearth into his thick pelt, sprang to his paws with a sharp bark, every hair on his giant body stiff as needles. The old herbalist calmed all three of them with a wave of his hand, his eyes never leaving Dream’s face. “I can barely believe it, though I have just seen it.” He breathed in undisguised awe, almost as if looking upon the blessed domain itself before it was destroyed in the Fall of the Arada. “You…are one of them…you carry their blood…so purely.” He saw their bewildered looks, and checked himself with a brief nod. “Of course you don’t know what I speak of; it is hardly a history that the Aradomorians would encourage among their slaves.”  
He shuffled to the creaky, old chair by the corner of the hearth, and then invited them to have seats before the crackling flames. Folding his hands together and staring into the firelight, he began.   
“What I speak of, the Shrykar and the BladeStryders, they walked upon SwordSoul during the First Age, and for a thousand years, the blood of both watered the earth. The Shrykar were creatures of the Taint; a dark essence that flowed from a relic of the ancient realms and which was thought safely hidden away. They were a terrible scourge on the kingdoms, and only the BladeStryders could kill them; for the BladeStryders knew the secrets of lyryl and with that they struggled for a thousand years, through the darkness of the Black Winter and the continuous treachery of the Aradomorians, to put an end to the Shrykar threat.”  
“Then, without any warning, the BladeStryder Order vanished, and nothing more was heard of them or the Shrykar again. What is known today as Bladerelna, was once Bladeheim; the home of the BladeStryders, and no order of such valour and determination has ever walked the realms of SwordSoul since. The Blaideish are strongly suspected to be descendants of the BladeStryders, but only the Tethdorians would know that for sure.”  
“Why is that?” Dream asked curiously.  
“Because it was the Tethdorians who formed the bulk of the BladeStryder Order, and their kingdom did much to ease the sufferings of those warriors due to the Aradomorians and their treachery. The secret of lyryl went to the grave with the order, but duskrite – the steel of the BladeStryders – that knowledge was passed on to the Tethdorians, no doubt as a sign of gratitude.”  
“But I wander from the main point I wished to reveal. The blood of the Shrykar is a terrible poison that burns and freezes at the same time. The Aradomorians, through the Kulunhir Cult they raised in alliance with the Shrykar, gained access to this dark curse, and took it upon themselves as a blessing. They were deluded, blinded by their own ambition and the hatred of the BladeStryders which they brought upon themselves. The Order disappeared at the end of the First Age, and we are now in the years of the Third Age, but it seems that some twisted minds have preserved threads from that desperate era, perhaps with a mind to bring the horrors of the Shrykar once more upon SwordSoul.”  
He paused, running the tip of his tongue along his dry lips and reflecting back on the old days of which he recounted. “That is the Taint you carry, boy, and your only hope of a cure lies in your friend here.” His glance strayed to Dream once more. “For it seems that through the generations from the BladeStryders, some Blaideish still carry an inherent bond to the lyryl essence that once ran in their blood, and which now runs in her own. Lyryl is that light which strikes fear into the Taint, for it knows and remembers its cleansing purity.”  
He wanted to say more by way of explanaition, but the sudden stir of Halcyon cut him short. The giant wolf sprang to his paws with no warning, and rushed to the doorway, ears pressed against the back of his skull and a worrying whine escaped his jaws. Vermeil eyes wide with alarm and urgency, he turned his head back to the others and barked imperiously.   
“He smells danger, it seems.” The herbalist rose stiffly from his seat and peered out the one window.  
Dream and Reorren scrambled to their feet and stepped outside, their first fear that the Aradomorian soldiers had returned to the town. But no smoke or commotion came from that direction, and Halcyon’s muzzle pointed away westwards toward the road. The wolf’s agitation grew, till suddenly he bounded away through the snow with an anxious howl.   
Dream grabbed Reorren’s arm, “Kor went with Davryan, didn’t he? What if something has gone wrong?”   
“We should follow him.” The lean scout nodded, but he paused and turning to the herbalist, thanked him awkwardly. And before the old man could answer, the two had sprinted away in pursuit of the distant form of Halcyon.


	28. Chapter 28

“Any sign of them?” Ethryder asked hopefully as Ethran and Vjelka stepped inside, a breath of icy wind accompanying them. But they shook their heads as they moved towards the hearth to thaw their stiff fingers.  
“Not that we have found.” The Amateuthian knight replied, slight suspicion in her voice. “And I trust to their good sense that they didn’t go trailing after Davryan.” She claimed the nearest bench and dropped onto it with a sigh. “The people we questioned all said they saw them leave the barracks after highsun, but that isn’t much help.”  
“I’m zure zomeone knowz vhere dhey are.” Ethran replied, helping himself to the repast laid out on the table.  
“Ethryder!” Talrukas and Telrona bolted into the room, out of breath and eyes wide with excited alarm. Talrosas, seated in the corner to the side of the hearth, looked up slightly and frowned, his concentration broken by their noisy entrance. “There is a group of strangers in town asking about the Oath.” They reported.  
Ethryder leaned forward, “Strangers?” his brows knit together and his eyes narrowed in suspicion.   
Kai’Ryna looked up from mending a small tear in one of her tunics, “We did receive a message from a hidden supporter in Akhaveth that a group of strangers were nosing about.” She reminded him softly.  
“What could they want from us?” Jarlai worried, shivering slightly as she heard the outer door open again. Her lake-blue eyes shifted nervously as the cloaked figure of Narr-Dok entered, the many folds of cloth and deep hood hiding his un-human features. “Are they spies? Assassins?”  
Vjelka laughed deep in her throat at the Aradomorian’s fears. “Jarlai, calm yourself. If they really are what you think, then let me tell you, they‘re doing a very poor job of it.”  
“What news, Narr?” Ethryder inquired, pushing the troubled look from his expression and resuming his calm attitude, as if bracing himself for the worst.  
Extricating himself with some difficulty from the cumbersome folds of his cloak, the Tor-Xiith dropped it unceremoniously onto the floor. “Perhaps next time I go out, such…” he eyed the misshapen bundle with apprehension, “such hindrances could be avoided?” he looked across at Jarlai hopefully.  
“But you don’t like going out in the open!” she protested over Ethran’s and Vjelka’s quiet laughing, throwing an annoyed glare in their direction. “I see the looks the people give you, it’s horrible!”  
Narr-Dok shrugged, blinking his green eyes. “They are learning. I realize my presence can be…disturbing, at first. Was that not how it was with you among the Oath when you came to them?” he turned a question to her with rather pointed bluntness. Jarlai fell silent, and a slight flush crept up her cheeks. The Tor-Xiith focused his reptoid eyes on Ethryder, “We have company; the group of strangers have entered the town, and are making their way here.” Even as he spoke, there was an imperious pounding on the door in the outer passage, and Jarlai could not suppress the shiver of dread that tingled up her shoulders.  
Ethryder drew in a deep breath. “Well then, let’s hear what these interlopers have to say. Ethran, if you would?” he looked toward him questioningly.  
With a quick nod, the Vakaric rose and strode almost casually out into the passage-way. The others who remained in the great hall heard the click of the door, followed by the muted, angry tones of a man, whose voice they did not recognize. A moment of silence followed, then Ethran said something and many pairs of booted feet tramped towards the hall. The Vakaric stepped smartly aside once he entered, and couldn’t help but grin somewhat mischievously at Ethryder as he performed a low bow.  
The strangers came in behind him. Leading the small group was a grey-robed man leaning upon a staff, his sharp expression seamed with the lines of age and much learning. At his side stood a tall warrior bearing the royal emblem of Amateuth on his shoulder-guards; his keen grey eyes running over the assembled Oath members as of to determine any threats that might lie concealed behind their passive, yet curious glances. Behind this warrior were two females, one armoured as he was, the other clad as if for a hard journey on foot through rough terrain, and another companion who seemed to be only a boy. The group was flanked by a tall, lean-shouldered warrior clad after the fashion of the Tyth’Kadarshi, and a younger one wearing the attire of a scout serving in the order of the Knights of the Sacred Flame.  
The flame-shaped emblem of this last one roused old memories in Ethryder and Vjelka, and they exchanged wistful glances. Ethryder then directed his attention to the old man, who seemed to be their leader. “To what do we owe this incursion?”  
“We seek the Oath, young man, and I have not travelled through the length of an entire realm to be balked by useless questions.” The old man replied harshly, his eagle-like glare falling on him with ill humour.  
“And you have found them.” Ethryder replied, although secretly the stranger’s reference to him as ‘young man’ sounded rather amusing. He rose from his chair and eyed the group sternly. “Now I ask you this; for what purpose have you so callously gained admittance to our haven and now demand of us?”  
“I am Gallandrin!” the seer retorted heatedly, ruffled at being questioned. “And in my company stands one of blood so noble none of you would dare raise an eye to her without begging first for permission to do so, if you knew of her.” He waved his staff toward the younger female in his following. “Behold the heir of Bladerelna! Lithandre, daughter of Escanor, grandson of High King Escavlor IV of the house of Highmourn.”  
Jarlai leaned forward. The girl’s fair and noble features, though marred with traces of pride and bearing the marks of a long road, reminded her sharply of Dream, before the dreadful night that left her scarred in more ways than one. She looked around, and saw her thoughts plainly on the faces of her companions. Was this girl, somehow related to Dream? Jarlai mentally shook her head at such an idea – she could never imagine Dream as being of such an ancient and fallen bloodline.  
“Gallandrin?” Vjelka repeated slowly, her eyes fixed rigidly on him. “Gallandrin the Binder, Gallandrin of the Grey Wanderings, the seer who is reputed to know much of the old lore. You are this man then?”  
“I am.” He replied with a touch of haughtiness in his voice. “I am glad to see that at least one among this rag-tag gathering of former slaves knows of me.”  
Narr-Dok blinked, “Rag-tag?”  
The strangers started, noticing him for the first time, and the one called Lithandre uttered a shriek of fear and backed away. Ethryder ignored their incredulous stares. “She is not the only one, seer. I have heard of you and your doings before I came to this land. And not all I have heard has endeared your name to my mind.” He answered slowly. He meant to say more, but suddenly the female warrior behind Gallandrin took a step forward, gently pushing the Binder to the side.  
She removed her helm, and her cyan eyes stared at the Oath intently. “Ethryder?” she breathed softly, as if finding herself looking upon one many had thought to be long in the grave. “Ethryder Silvercrow? Don’t you know me?” she asked hesitantly.  
At first surprised on hearing his name spoken, Ethryder gave the knight a closer look, and recognition spread across his features, relaxing his stern expression slightly. “Kisaye Warblade?”  
She smiled faintly, but then concern crossed her face. “We heard on the Warfront you had disappeared over a year ago, although the War Marshal could hardly accept that. What happened? How did you come to be here?”  
“The Aradomorians lurk far and wide for slaves to do their bidding.” The former Knight of the Flame replied. “I was captured.”  
“Sever found it hard to believe you had fallen to the drazil.” The warrior by Gallandrin’s side stirred.  
“General Tescar,” Ethryder acknowledged him with a slight dip of his head. He sighed, dark memories rising in his mind’s eye. “There were times when I half-wished I had. But what brings you here? Why bring the heir of Bladerelna to this chaos-riddled realm?”  
Gallandrin frowned, “To seek one of the same blood; her twin sister who answers to the name of Dream.”  
“Dream?” Telrona echoed in disbelief. “That’s impossible!”  
Ethryder shook his head, “Although I see the resemblance in them, yet I cannot call her before you.” He looked up with troubled eyes, “Dream, along with one of our other members, has disappeared.”  
The seer stared at him wordless for several minutes. “Disappeared?” he stuttered angrily. “What do you mean? Does not the Oath see to the safety of those who seek it?”  
“Gallandrin, you may know much, but you are newly come to Aradomoria, and seem to know little of this child you seek.” Ethryder replied firmly. “The Oath protects its own, yes, but we tend to wander and we have yet to determine the cause of her absence.”  
“Its own??” the seer wavered as if struck by a heavy weight from above. “Do not tell me she has taken the Oath!” he cried in alarm.  
Telrona sprang to her feet, her luminous eyes blazing, “Yes, she has!” she replied desperately. “And you can’t take her away; she belongs with us now!”


	29. Chapter 29

Dream sank against the trunk of the nearest tree, holding her aching sides and trying hard to keep her eyes open. The freezing wind and blinding snow made tracking nigh impossible, but still Kyzeinac and Kor pushed forward with combined stubbornness, and she and Reorren could only drag themselves after them. Two days they had followed the Aradomorians who had captured Davryan, and yet no sign of them could be seen, even their footprints were now obscured by the fresh snowfall. Her breath seemed to freeze before it left her lips, and the overcast sky made days and nights seem as one. She glanced around for her companions, who had likewise dropped to the ground for a brief respite.  
Kor re-adjusted the strips of cloth that covered the gash on his left arm, and stared skywards for several minutes. “It’s close to dusksun,” he noted, “If this storm continues we may have to wait out the night.”  
“No,” Kyzeinac disagreed, shaking his head as he tucked his waterskin back into his belt. His yellow eyes glinted in the close gloom; flames of a fire that never died out, and his silver hair glimmered as he swung his gaze towards Kor. “We’re getting closer. Reorren said they can’t be more than a day ahead of us now, and that they’re tiring. Didn’t you, boy?” he cast a glance towards Reorren, who was staring hard at the frozen ground of the road.  
The scout looked up, dark eyes void and unresponsive. “Yes,” he nodded slowly. His eyes slid past the men to rest on Dream before going on, “If we continue our current pace, we’ll be at their heels by dawn provided the storm-”  
“The storm is our ally in this matter.” Kyzeinac cut him short. “They won’t see us coming till we fall on them from behind. Get back on your feet!” he ordered, as if he had spent his life commanding fields of war instead of slaving under cruel whips in the worst of conditions.  
Dream heard him dimly, and some unknown strength compelled her to stand despite her deep reluctance. Halcyon growled in protest as he heaved up, but he seemed to know better than to go against Tethdorian will. Making sure her mask was still secure, Dream followed the others as they continued at a fast trot down the road, drawing out their strength for as long as they could. Feeling her legs moving again sent the blood coursing through her veins again and brought warmth to her chilled, half-frozen limbs. The wind screamed past her, as if outraged that the icy breath of winter had not dampened their zeal. Head down and eyes fixed on the road, Dream tried to ignore the freezing touch of the wind as it penetrated through her surcoat and leather. She wasn’t sure, when they caught up to the Aradomorians, if she’d be able to even draw her sword let alone swing it; her hands felt numb at her sides and she couldn’t feel her fingers. If Kyzeinac wasn’t so adamant, if she herself wasn’t so fixed on rescuing their leader, she would have fallen right there on the road in exhaustion. But every time she felt like doing that, the scene of her burning village rose before her mind, and the screams of the dying inhabitants echoed hauntingly through her ears. She hadn’t been able to save her near-mother, but Davryan was still alive – or so Kyzeinac and Kor strongly thought – and there was still a chance they could save him. That thought, and that thought alone, kept her eyes open and her legs moving.  
It seemed like an eternity later that Kyzeinac called them to halt for another short rest. Dream staggered as she brought her pace to a standstill and braced herself up with one arm leaning against a towering boulder by the edge of the road. Her throat felt as if her very breath has raked it raw, and she had developed an uncomfortable stitch in her side that annoyed her even more. Sweat streamed down her neck and shoulders, and she could feel it coursing down her back. Despite the winter chill, she felt unusually warm, like it was the middle of summertide. Wrenching off her mask and ignoring the sting of the wind against her damp cheeks, she clamped her waterskin to her lips and drank, slowly sinking to the ground as the drink refreshed her heated body and brought relief to her aching limbs.  
Halcyon stood panting by her side; vermeil eyes watching as Reorren knelt by the road, a puzzled crease on his brow. “They mounted up here.” He observed in a low voice, more making a mental note to himself than informing the others.  
“What?” Kor had sharp ears, and he stared at the scout with troubled shadows in his weary eyes.  
“They mounted up here.”  
Kyzeinac snorted. The storm had passed over sometime earlier, but Dream had not noticed till now that it had gotten lighter. The snow-covered trees and boulders by the road could now be seen as more then wavering blurs in the middle of a blinding snowstorm, and a weak sun was endeavouring to break through the bank of sullen grey clouds. She glanced up, and saw with surprise just how haggard and driven Kyzeinac looked. His sharp-cut features were dulled with dirt, old blood and the hard, set expression of one who refuses to accept failure, refuses to admit that they had been helpless to avert what had happened, refuses to give up seeking atonement even if it kills them. She felt a sigh crawling up her throat, and stamped it back down mercilessly; they all shared the Tethdorian’s feelings, though perhaps not as keenly and personally as he did.  
“They changed direction too.” Reorren remarked, intrigue pulling at his words. “They’re heading north now instead of east as at the first.”  
Kor blinked, “North?”  
Kyzeinac curled his hands by his side, eyes narrowing to mere, golden threads. “They’re taking him to Archin’s Demise.” His voice was grim, resigned, yet screaming with silent desperation.  
Reorren paled at the mention of that name; Dream saw it under his tan, the fear and dread that suddenly tensed through his lean frame. But Kor looked on uncomprehendingly. “What is Archin’s Demise?” he asked, as ignorant as Dream was on the matter.  
“You wouldn’t know of it.” Kyzeinac replied stiffly, staring straight ahead. “But every slave in Aradomoria knows that name, and some fear it more than the Nameless Darkness. It is a prison…designed to break the wills of all who enter those vile, Maker-forsaken halls.”  
“You’ve…been there?” Dream asked nervously. Reorren remained where he knelt, hugging his sides so the others wouldn’t see his trembling arms. Kor kept his gaze on the tall, hardened Tethdorian, and Halcyon suddenly twisted around to fiercely lick at his flanks as if a irritable fly had bitten him in a tender spot.  
Kyzeinac turned to her, and nodded. “Long ago. I would have rather faced every northern raider in the White Wilderness then what tortures those bastards employ in those cursed dungeons, and I will die before they break Davryan in there!”  
Kor shook his head, “Kye, think! We can’t take on the defences such a place would have, not in our condition, not with our numbers, not without some kind of plan.” He warned firmly but carefull not to add fuel to the Tethdorian’s rising passion. “It is heavily guarded, isn’t it?”  
“I won’t turn my back on my captain!” Kyzeinac retorted.  
“No one is asking you to.” Kor countered in the same calm, but determined spirit Kyzeinac displayed. “I’m only saying we need to think this through; we are *not* abandoning him. We need to go back to Banrheig, inform Ethryder and the others, and *together* we will plan his rescue.”  
Kyzeinac stood his ground defiantly, eyes blazing with the iron will and die-hard stubbornness of his race. “You can go back if you like! But I will not leave now, not after he was captured under my watch.”  
He blames himself for this, Dream realized with a start, just as she had blamed herself for Eshura’s death and the death of her entire village. “Kyzeinac,” She ventured, scrambling to her feet so that she was at least closer to his eye level. “I know how you feel, I know you think you can do this alone. But you must realize, you’ll only get yourself killed with this blind arrogance. You’re more use to Davryan alive; you won’t help him if you get captured yourself and either thrown in there too or killed.”  
Kyzeinac glared at her. He didn’t refute her words, guessing accurately what memories were going through her mind at that moment. Slowly the defiance in his eyes faded, and his shoulders lost their arrogant stance. He sighed, and nodded reluctantly. “You’re right, both of you.” He admitted with some difficulty, vague resentment lingering in his words, but there was no malice or animosity in his expression as he looked up. “We’ll return to Banrheig.”  
Dream felt relief wash over her, thinking how long it was since she had enjoyed a warm bed at night and a hot meal. Glancing down to retrieve her waterskin, rough irregualities on the face of the boulder she had been leaning against caught her eye, and she bent closer to examine them. the shapes were letters, awkwardly cut into the surface of the stone and in a strange tongue she could not understand. “What does this say? Some sort of road marking?” she drew her companions’ attention to it.  
“What?” Kor came to stand by her side. He peered closely at the writing. “Hm, its written in Hy’Tethrish.”  
Kyzeinac glanced up sharply. “Hy’Tethrish?” He bent down to see for himself, and Dream saw his expression go tight with concern and trepidation. “That is Davryan’s writing.” He said gravely. And before anyone could inquire as to its meaning, he read slowly and distinctly. “Adovon tek atathus Dream…”  
Kor translated, “They’re coming for Dream.”


	30. Chapter 30

Dream took a step back as the other three turned to her simultaneously. Their probing, questioning glances searched her blank, puzzled expression for some hint that she knew the meaning of the hastily scrawled warning. But she was as much in the dark as they were. “I don’t know what he means.” She shook her head.  
“He knew we would follow…and he must have listened in on the enemy’s plans, and left this warning.” Reorren voiced what they were all thinking. “But why? Why Dream? How do they even know her name?”  
Kor straightened up, and shared a knowing look with Halcyon, who answered the unspoken question in his eyes with a low snarl. He bit his lip, half-wanting to disregard the wolf’s warning and tell Dream just who was really after her and why. But Halcyon was adamant, ‘Wait for the Black Lady’s command.’  
Not much was said as they wearily retraced their steps. Dream huddled inside her own thoughts. Who were ‘they’, and why were they looking for her? She glanced up once, and noticed Reorren keeping pace with her while Kor lagged several steps behind, lost in deep thought. Kyzeinac, the only one who did not show physical signs of weariness, strode ahead, eyes bent on the road and his lips set in a thin, tight line. Halcyon padded silently far to the right, keeping to the line of trees and every now and again he would pause and sniff the air with low growls. Dream turned back to Reorren, “Have you thought about what the herbalist told us?” she asked in a guarded whisper, mindful of their companions.  
“Some,” he nodded, matching the volume of his voice to hers, adding. “It’s not like I’ve had a lot of free time for it though.”  
She agreed silently. “Jarlai is going to have a fit when we get back and she sees those two.” Her eyes flicked first to Kyzeinac then over her shoulder to Kor.  
“They are hardened warriors; they don’t need to be coddled by some highborn and her constant whimperings.” Reorren replied shortly, not liking to be reminded of the Aradomorian. “Maybe if she had spent more time among the hovels we were forced to call our homes and seen how we were really treated, she would be more hardened herself.”  
Dream frowned, but unsure how to answer she remained silent. Besides, all she really wanted right now was a good meal, a hot bath to warm her chilled limbs and her narrow bunk. She ached all over. Her eyes kept sliding shut no matter how hard she tried to keep them open, her stomach growled for nourishment after being denied for close to four days now, her fingers felt somehow apart from the rest of her, and her surcoat and leather were fringed with a thin layer of ice. She admitted to herself that although she wasn’t as haggard and half-dead looking as Kor and Kyzeinac, Jarlai would be sure to have something to say to her as well.  
But it wasn’t Jarlai who came racing from the barracks to release a flood of questions as they stumbled into the courtyard two days later just as dusk was falling. The place was strangely silent. Kyzeinac swept his gaze around the area, mentally noting the absence of a watch. With anxious glances at each other, they pushed open the main doors, angry voices reached them from the main hall as they stood in the passageway uncertainly.  
“We have searched!” Ethryder sounded very near the end of his patience, and there was an audible crash of an armoured fist slamming down on a table. “What would you have us do? Abandon this town to scatter in all directions just to find her? Our leader and two other of our warriors are also missing now!”  
“You seem very disorganized then.” The sneering, cracked voice of an old man answered him.  
“You know little of what we have been through, seer.” Vjelka countered sternly, and Dream could imagine the Amateuthian’s eyes lighting up with a dangerous glint. “King Ostor and his supporting nobles try to weaken us daily. Right now the safety of our leader is our chief concern.”  
“Vhy don’t you go look vor her ivh you vant her zo badly?” Ethran backed Vjelka up staunchly. “All you have done zince coming here iz complain and grumble.”  
A strange voice broke in, “Gallandrin, I must agree with the Oath on this point. You have strictly forbidden us to join the search, yet you make matters little better by your ceaseless bickering. Have some measure of patience!”  
Kor caught his breath. Gallandrin was here! That meant Lithandre was also with him, and the ‘her’ they kept talking about must be Dream. He recognized the voice of the last speaker; it was the same as that of the Amateuthian general who had challenged him back at Wolf’s Bastion so many moons ago. He glanced at Halcyon; the giant wolf barely holding himself back from springing into the room and lunging for the seer’s throat.  
Suddenly Kyzeinac pushed forwards, with Dream and Reorren close at his heels, and a moment of silence descended over the hall as those within caught sight of his battle-worn appearance. “What’s going on here?” he demanded in iron tones. His yellow eyes levelled at the group of strangers, particularly at the old man he had heard speaking to Ethryder in such a callous manner.  
“Kyzeinac!” several voices burst out in one breath.  
“Where is Davryan?” Ethryder asked eagerly, hoping the business of dealing with these troublesome guests would soon pass from his shoulders.  
“A prisoner of the Aradomorians.” The Tethdorian replied shortly.  
“Kye! No!”  
“Davryan has been captured?!”  
“Maker’s mercy, how could this happen!”  
“How iz it pozzible?”  
“Where?”  
The most sensible question came from Talrosas, who managed to make himself heard above the horrified gasps and protests of the others. Kyzeinac shook his head as he made his way to the table and laid hands on the nearest flagon. Pouring himself a drink, he paused with the rim of his goblet at his lips. “Archon’s Demise.” He answered grimly before sating his thirst.  
Deadly silence fell over the Oath, for every one of them had heard of that hated name, and old fear swelled in the hearts of a few. “How did it happen?” Ethryder asked heavily.  
“We were ambushed on the road.” Kyzeinac recounted the details of the ambush briefly and their chase of the next few days. “Before anything else, we have to get him out of there.” He finished, pouring himself another drink.  
Gallandrin rose to his feet in outrage, “No! No one is going anywhere until one of you tells me where Dream is!”  
“And what do you want with her, old man?” Kor challenged quietly from the doorway where he stood protectively behind Dream. Reorren had slunk into a corner and now watched what would happen next with silent, alert eyes. Halcyon bristled at the assassin’s side, the tips of his fangs showing from beneath his upper lip.  
“You!” Lithandre, who was seated near the hearth with Kisaye at her side, now sprang up with alarm and fear. “What have you done with my sister?” she shouted.  
Kor’Dyran smirked behind the shadows of his hood. “I have kept her safe as I was instructed. Amusing you should be so concerned, considering you never wanted to find her.”  
“Where is she, Dark Scythe?” General Tescar threw the demand at him while laying a hand to his swordhilt. A flood of voices drowned out the answer that followed; several people sprang to their feet, the Oath stoutly defending Kor while Gallandrin’s cracked voice rang out in condemnation against the assassin. Ethryder gave Tescar and Kisaye a questioning look, but they could not make themselves heard above the commotion, and could only shrug in helpless resignation.  
“So the Oath habours assassins and murderers in their ranks!” Gallandrin sneered, “I wonder what other shadows you hide around here.” His eyes flashed at Kor with anger, injured pride and thwarted dignity, stinging from the fact that his enemy had managed to get ahead of him despite his careful planning.  
Lithandre glared at Kor and his wolf with raging eyes, “Where is my sister?” she repeated shrilly. “Have you killed her, like you tried to kill me?”  
Dream heard Kor laugh quietly behind her, and deep mistrust kindled in her eyes at the accusation thrown at her friend by this strange, proud-faced girl. She made a move forward, but Halcyon held his muzzle against her leg detainingly as Kor answered Lithandre. “Spilling your blood was never my intent, girl. And the old man there claiming to be a seer knows that very well, don’t you?” His yellow eyes fell on Gallandrin with piercing keenness.  
“You lie!” the seer shook with fury.  
Kyzeinac sprang to his feet, hand clamped around his swordhilt and eyes burning with zealous flames. “You call his honour into question so brazenly?” he dared the old man. “What is your interest in one of the Oath? Whether she is truly that wench’s sister or not, her life is bound with ours, and whatever may have been her fate in her former life is now forfeit.”  
Gallandrin laughed hysterically. “You fools! You cannot keep a heir of the Highmourn house from the throne!”  
Tescar sighed heavily, and his grey eyes flickered with rare anger as he turned to face the Binder. “Gallandrin, would you calm down so we can settle this in a more mannered approach?” he asked with a trace of curtness in his voice. “If you weren’t constantly mouthing off with your injured dignity and only fueling Lithandre’s stubborn pride, we wouldn’t be having this senseless dispute.” He pointed out sternly, one eye silently rebuking Lithandre for her outburst.  
“Our enemy stands right there, Tescar, and that is all you can say?” Gallandrin feigned astonishment, but his eyes were raging at the Amateuthian general.  
“And has made no move against our ward.” Kisaye couldn’t help but add with a sharp glance at him.  
Dream half-turned her head towards Kor, and as she did so her eyes fell on Reorren, standing in a corner. His eyes were fixed on her with sudden, empty disbelief and suspicion, and the trust she had seen in his features just a few hours ago was now buried underneath his old icy and withdrawn expression. “What do they want with me?” she whispered to Kor furtively.  
“Ask them; see if they tell you the truth.” Kor returned guardedly.  
Dream swallowed; that wasn’t the answer she had hoped for. But turning back to face the one the others called Gallandrin, she summoned the strength gained over the past moons among the Oath and which the past six days had very nearly sapped away. “What do you want with me?” she asked in the firmest tone she could muster.  
The eyes of the strangers flew towards her eagerly, only to be foiled by the burning silver of her mask. Lithandre recognized the mask as the same worn by the warrior who had remained to fight off the soldiers in Akhaveth. She remembered the streak of blood that had coursed down one side like a lone tear, but the deep, hardened voice that now spoke erased such a thought from her mind. There seemed no room for remorse or regret in the girl’s tone, and Lithandre felt a shudder pass through her. She looked past the mask to Kor’s concealed features, and saw his eyes glint with secret pleasure at her discomfort. Scowling, she gave her attention to the answer Gallandrin returned to the question.  
“It is Dream I want.” He replied doggedly. “What I have to say is for her ears alone.”  
Drawing herself up and with eyes flashing at being dodged, Dream retorted sternly, “What you have to say to Dream is for all the Oath to hear! Now answer me!” she ordered in a voice that demanded an answer no matter how willingly it was given.  
“You heard her.” Kyzeinac and Kor both prodded as Gallandrin suddenly seemed to wilt beneath Dream’s unseen gaze.  
“Shut-up!” Lithandre screamed at them as the seer stumbled back and sank into the chair from which he had sprung at the very beginning of the argument. “Gallandrin, what’s wrong?” she asked anxiously in a voice that clearly carried to the others how unused to worry and concern she really was. She glared at Dream when Gallandrin refused to answer, his body shaking like a withered tree buffeted by a strong, relentless wind. “What have you done to him?”


	31. Chapter 31

“Nothing.” Dream responded coldly, ignoring the rage in the other girl’s eyes as she kept her gaze fixed on Gallandrin. “Except ask him his intent with me.”  
Kyzeinac shook his head, “This is pointless. I don’t care what this seer claims to be searching for, but we have better and more important things to be doing other than listening to his ravings.”  
“Like having the healers see to your injuries.” Jarlai intercepted what he would have said next. Her trained eyes had been observing all four of them since they had stepped inside, and she could see that Kyzeinac and Kor both carried wounds. She had kept silent during the debate, mostly because her mind had been plunged into turmoil at the news that Davryan had been captured. But now she stood and motioned to Kai’Ryna with one hand. “If you and Kor will come with us’ she addressed Kyzeinac ‘we’ll tend you at once.”  
“Perhaps you should take a look at the seer as well.” Ethryder suggested.  
But his gesture of compassion was scorned by Lithandre, who scowled at Kai’Ryna. “We don’t need your help!” she insisted sullenly. “The Dark Scythe is among your ranks, and you could be allied with the Black Lady for all we know. You will not tell us where Dream is.”  
“Lithandre, hold your tongue.” Tescar warned her sternly.  
Kor sighed heavily, “We did tell you…you just refused to listen.”  
Glaring at him as if her mere glance could kill him, Lithandre opened her mouth to retort, but she never got farther than that. Dream stepped forward, “I told you; I am Dream. But your seer over there wouldn’t take my word for it.”  
Ethryder signed for the others to leave, and the Oath slowly complied, casting dark, suspicious looks at the strangers as they stepped out into the passage. Only Reorren, unobserved in his corner, and Talrukas, sitting motionless by the hearth, escaped the attention of the acting captain over the Oath. Kyzeinac and Kor stayed as well, as did Halcyon, who never left Dream’s side, his vermeil eyes alert for the slightest move against her.  
Lithandre stood to her feet, facing Dream and trying to match her unseen, steady gaze. “Than if you are Dream, why hide behind that mask? Show us your features; Gallandrin said they would mirror mine.” She tried to make her voice bold and imperative, but unused to actually commanding respect, she failed horribly.  
“You don’t want to see my face.” Dream warned her off. “You’re soft; I can see it in your eyes. You don’t know the scars of war and suffering like we do.” Her hand pointed to her still-present companions. “But they do, and they know.”  
“That’s no answer!” Lithandre argued in frustration. “I am the princess of Amateuth and Bladerelna – I command you to show yourself!”  
Tescar and Kisaye both felt the urge to rebuke her, but something about the way Dream spoke and looked at her made the words sink back down their throats. Ethryder wedged his voice between the two girls before either of them could go on. “It’s late,” he observed in mild tones, “and no doubt our four returned members are weary from their chase. I suggest we turn in and let our tempers calm before this matter is brought up again.”  
“A good idea.” Kareth, who had remained silent through-out the entire discussion, now agreed before Lithandre could protest. Dream bit her lip, unwilling to back down after Gallandrin’s persistent queries, but feeling Kyzeinac’s eye on her, she dropped her defensive stance and gave a short nod. The others in the room slowly left, drifting to their nightly occupations; either to their respective wards or to take up sentry duty on the town walls. Dream felt Reorren give her a long side-stare as he passed her, and a slight shudder rippled through her, like a faint warning sense in the back of her mind. A sudden resentment she had not noticed before now seemed to cloak him like some dark aura, and though she met his stare with innocent questioning, he did not actually look her in the eye. He slunk down the passage towards the ward where the men slept without another glance, leaving Dream to ponder his abrupt elusiveness.   
As Ethryder strode past, he paused to lay a hand on her shoulder in a sympathetic gesture. “They’ve been harping after your name ever since they got here…its left most of us on edge.” His deep grey eyes bore signs of weariness and the added strain of having to put up with their demanding guests. “And now the news about Davryan…well, these people will have to wait.”  
“Why do they want me?” Dream asked uncertainly.  
Ethryder ran a finger thoughtfully down the bridge of his nose, “The seer was ranting about the Blaideish royal house; the Highmourns, and that you were some lost heir. His companions, except for the princess, seemed to be more mannered and not demanding as he was. General Tescar has had to calm Gallandrin down on numerous occasions.”  
“Even if I was what he thinks I am, I would not trade my place here with what he could offer me.” Dream replied firmly. “Not that I could leave if I wanted to anyway.” She added, hinting to the oath she had taken when first joining them.  
The Blaideish knight smiled slightly despite circumstances, “I’m glad to hear you say that, and I know Davryan would be as well.” Then he hesitated, “But the Highmourn princess…if she is your sister, she can make a claim on you, force you out of the Oath.”  
Dream lowered her eyes for a minute, her jaw tightening. “I won’t let her take me away.” She looked up, a sudden, strange fire in her dark eyes. “I won’t let her ruin what has already been broken.”  
“I’m not sure it’ll be that easy, Dream.” Kyzeinac spoke up from the table where he was still sitting, sating his thirst. His yellow eyes gleamed with deeper gold flecks as he turned to face her, the firelight reflecting off his travel-worn features. “The Highmourn bloodline is ancient, and their pride goes as far back as their ancestors; the BladeStryders. Although the princess has nothing that would associate herself with that respected order, if prodded by that stuttering fool, she will push the claim she has on you…provided you are sisters as the seer attests.”  
“I have no family.”  
Ethryder frowned, “To yours and our knowledge.” He corrected her gently. “You did not even know you were a Blaideish as I recall.”  
Dream bit her lower lip, “True…”  
“We’ll worry ourselves with this later – after we bring Davryan back.” Kyzeinac stated as he stiffly rose to his feet. “Bladerelna has been without a true High King and Queen for fifty-two years now; a few more days will not make any difference.”  
Dream left the main hall, making her way down the passage to where the women slept in their own ward. Despite the lateness of the hour, the ceaseless hunt of the past several days, and her own restless thoughts about Davryan and these strangers, she felt no inclination to rest. Wandering out onto the balcony that overlooked the courtyard and much of the town facing the main gates, she slowly pulled her mask away from her face. The chilly winter wind caressed her scarred cheek, the old wounds stinging a little at the icy touch, and her crimson hair strayed across her shoulders like the scarlet threads of banners. Her dark eyes half-closed as she leaned her elbows against the rim of the balustrade and sank her chin in the cup of her hands. The night air was uncomfortably cold, and she felt shivers running up and down her back, but nothing compelled her to go inside.  
Her mind turned back to the conversation in the main hall, and Reorren’s accusing, yet elusive glare lurked uneasily in her mind’s eye. Bladerelna; she had heard of that realm before from her near-mother. Eshura had spoken of it briefly, long ago. It was the greatest kingdom in the Alliance of Crowns, and had actually been the driving force that had led to the union of Bladerelna and the other five great kingdoms of Tethdoria, Amateuth, Aradomoria, Vakaria and Rukaathria. Eshura had spoken of the great Highmourn house, but she had said that their honour and glory had fallen. But she had never told Dream from which kingdom she had come from…had she even known herself? All Dream had known was that she carried no Aradomorian blood in her, and that she had learned from Davryan.  
A thin shadow detached itself from the darkness of the courtyard, and Dream’s half-closed eyes opened fully, straining through the gloom to recognize who it was. The figure crept forwards with purposeful strides, heading for the stables, and the faint creak of an opening latch, followed by a brief ray of light, reached her eyes. The light was enough to show her who the figure was, and she felt a strange, sinking feeling somewhere deep back and far away in her mind. Dream sighed heavily, and her arms slumped over the balustrade in reluctant resignation.


	32. Chapter 32

“Where are you going at such a late hour?”  
Dream watched Reorren spin around, and his dark eyes narrowed with the same resent and suspicion he viewed Jarlai with. He shrugged, turned back, and resumed tacking up his horse. She waited for an answer, her silent gaze burning into his back with bewildered rebuke. Finally he dropped the harness strap in his hands and turned around to face her. Her unmasked features were impassive, empty, as if she wanted to deny the reason she knew he had.  
“I’ve had to put up with one high-born, now two?” he snorted. “Jarlai I can suffer because she doesn’t go on missions anymore. But you…”  
“Reorren, no one has proven that man’s claims yet.”  
He scowled, “Haven’t they? You heard what that alchemist said about BladeStryders; you were there when he told us about the Taint, about the essence of lyryl.” He bent to tighten the girth and then continued. “I’m done with highborns and their manipulative ways!”  
“No one here is trying to manipulate you-” Dream began, but he brutally cut her off.  
“Yes you are!” Reorren’s voice, though low and guarded, still carried the full weight of his frustration and hate. “You tried to befriend me…to make out that you were different, but now I find, you’re just like Jarlai, just like all of them!” He refused to even meet her glance, his eyes dragging on the floor.  
Dream drew in a deep breath. “So, to avoid all this ‘manipulation’ as you put it, you’re running away?”  
“No!” he jerked his head up sharply, revulsion in every twist of his features. “That’s not why. I’m leaving to avoid being a pawn for another ambitious highborn! I’ve had enough of being used…like I’m some sort of resource.”  
“None of us treat you as a resource, Reorren.” Dream shook her head. “And if you leave, have you forgotten about the Taint you carry? You know what will happen if you allow it to remain. Do you…really want to become that beast you say you hate?” She meant what she said in a concerned manner, but it seemed to only reignite his anger.   
“I’ll find another way – I don’t need you!” he retorted, buckling the last harness strap in place and catching the reins.  
“Reorren…” Dream hesitated; she had no wish to aggravate him anymore, but she felt this urge to try every persuasion she could think of to call him back from this path he was about to blindly plunge down. “…what about the oath you took? Does it mean anything to you? Don’t you have any sense of honour left?”  
With his back to her, he shook his head, and cold bitterness like venom dropped from every word as he answered. “Bastards have no honour.” He whirled around as he heard her take a step forward. “You have no idea…what my master did to me…to my mother…to make me what I am; I have no place in this world. The Oath will be better off without me, and I will be safer away from highborns.”  
“Your hatred for highborns comes from one act?” Dream observed uncertainly, but before she finished saying it she knew it had been the wrong thing.   
To her horror, Reorren suddenly turned on her with a swiftness quite unlike him, and rammed her against the opposite wall, pinning her there. She stared up into his dark eyes, that now seemed to mirror the spirit of the beast that lurked inside him, and even his voice echoed a snarl. “‘One act’ you say?” he growled, “It was more than one, and a highborn such as yourself would know what your kind does to those they deem lesser.”  
Dream flinched at the sharp pain that shot through her arms under his hold, but she decided against commenting on the fact that she had no clue as to how highborns acted. Striving to keep her voice calm and reasonable, she met his raging gaze with her own firm, though hurt, look. “If you’re so worked up about that, than why are you holding me like this? Someone would get the wrong idea if they came and saw us.”  
Paling, Reorren realized what he was doing and let her go, taking several steps back to put distance between them. He shook his head, his voice void of the anger and resentment that had soaked his words only minutes earlier. “You shouldn’t be asking into my past, Dream. Maybe you’re not like them now, but after a while you’ll change, and its best if I’m not here when that happens.” He grasped the saddle firmly and swung himself up, gathering the reins in one hand. “I hope you and the others bring Davryan back safely.”  
“And who will bring you back safely?” Dream inquired softly, hoping her voice was not trembling as much as she felt it was. She looked up, and her scarred features, shimmering in the soft moonlight that filtered down from the stable window, were even more twisted by the storm of emotions that washed over her.  
Reorren glanced down for the briefest of seconds, and then shook his head as he guided his horse towards the door. “Don’t worry about me; I’m fine on my own. For both our sakes, just forget you ever met me.” He muttered over his shoulder as his horse trotted into the courtyard. She heard the dull echo of hooves on the pavement, slowly fading as they strayed further and further away. A sigh, long, low and shuddering, broke from her lips as she half-turned to stare at the gate through which Reorren had just ridden, maybe never to ride beneath those carved arches again. 

Kor’Dyran glanced around one more time to assure himself that they were absolutely alone before unclasping his hand from around the black stone he used to contact his mistress. Halcyon growled as he stalked around, keeping close to the circle of trees, the shadows distorting the ghostly blue sheen of his pelt. The Black Lady stepped from the darkness, her soft voice barely stirring the dim light that swirled about the trees. “Kor’Dyran,” a faint smile barely succeeded in touching her ageless, yet grieving features. “what news do you bring me of the heirs?”  
“Gallandrin is here, with the eldest Highmourn heir.” Kor replied, his indifferent tones concealing his deep resentment for them. “The Oath are in turmoil over the claims they make on Dream, and over the loss of their leader.”  
“Ah,” the Black Lady sighed sorrowfully. For several minutes she remained silent, then asked, “What of the third child you spoke of?”  
Kor cleared his throat uncomfortably. “He…is no longer with the Oath.”  
His mistress stared at him, “Dead?”  
“It appears he bears deep bitterness to highborn after suffering at their hands in the past. I watched as Dream tried to reason with him, without any success, and in the end she let him go.” Kor recounted from what he had witnessed in the stables as he had been sneaking from the barracks to contact his mistress.  
“I see,” the Black Lady nodded, her eyes thoughtful and troubled. “I will ensure he remains out of harm’s way for the time being, and I trust you will continue to watch over young Dream?” The inquiring ring of her voice made Kor think it was a question, and he nodded assent. “At all costs, the leader of the Oath must be returned to his followers.”  
Kor’Dyran bowed deeply. “As you wish, my Lady.” He hesitated, and looked up. “There is something else though. There was a warning left by the Oath captain, saying that ‘they were coming for Dream.’ I do not know if the others understood the implications, but I fear the Mor’Heda will attempt to seize her again, very soon.”  
“Yes, I have seen them gathering in the distance.” The Black Lady replied with a barely perceptible nod of her head. “But I have also sensed her grow strong these past moons; she is discovering the strength of her ancient lineage at last…a strength withheld from her older sibling it seems.” She was silent for a long time, then she looked up. “Bladerelna is moving against Amateuth; very soon now war will ravage the shores of both kingdoms as the Alliance of Crowns weakens. Dream must be told – you must tell her.”  
“You think that is wise with what the seer has filled her ears with?” Kor replied cautiously.  
The Black Lady nodded, “She trusts you, Kor’Dyran.”  
He nodded and let out a soft sigh. “As you command.”

Dream lay stretched out on her bunk in the female ward, eyes staring through the darkness vacantly as she recalled the sharp pressure of Reorren’s hands on her arms and the wild, hunted look in his dark eyes. She stirred uneasily; her attempts to fall asleep thwarted by her confused thoughts and the rather audible snores from Vjelka, who slept on the far end of the ward. A quick step outside in the passage tingled her spine, and she sat up as the door was gently eased open. A dark figure framed the opening, and Kor’s voice reached out to her from the shadows, “Dream, I need to talk to you.”  
Slipping her feet into her boots, she tip-toed quietly to the door and blinked in the sudden light that emanated from the nearby brazier. “What’s going on?” she asked warily as Kor shut the door without the slightest creak of hinges. Halcyon silenced her with a low growl, and the assassin beckoned her to follow him out to the barrack walls.  
Only when he was assured that no one would intrude on their conversation, did Kor’Dyran finally speak. “Dream, there are things I must tell you. I know you will say I should have told you sooner, but understand, I am under orders.” His yellow eyes studied her in the gloom, and saw her nod uncertainly. “What Gallandrin says is true – you are Lithandre’s younger sister and the second heir to the Highmourn throne in Bladerelna.”  
To his surprise, she nodded calmly, but there was strange sorrow in her voice as she answered. “I should have guessed from what the herbalist told me. But even now that I know, I have no desire to go back with them. My place is here; Davryan needs me, the Oath needs me, and…Reorren needs me.” Her voice sank to a bare whisper as she uttered her last words.  
“Gallandrin thinks he can take back the Blaideish throne if he brings the heirs back to Bladerelna and confronts Vorzil face to face.” Kor explained, “But he fails to see that should either of you set foot in Bladerelna, you will fall straight into the hands of your enemy.”  
“Enemy?”  
Kor nodded grimly, “The Witch of the Ashen Wastes, as she is known to most. She is a servant of Savrez Mordre, and ever those who follow his dark path seek to bring their master back into SwordSoul. She needs your blood – yours and your sister’s – for such a purpose, and naturally her eyes are on Bladerelna, but her spies and agents are in every realm. The Mor’Heda,” he reminded her of the assault on Banrheig, “were actually here for you.”  
Dream caught her breath, and her dark eyes widened as she looked up at him. “Is that why Davryan left the warning?”  
The assassin shook his head. “I do not think he knew. It is more likely he listened in on his captors; the Witch is not the only one who seeks your life, Vorzil, the son of the usurper Sateinak, also hunts the heirs of Escavlor, and even Ostor knows that if he finds them he will be able to force any alliance he wishes with either of the two.”  
Lost in thought, Dream leaned against the battlements. For several minutes she was silent, and Kor waited wordless, staring at the twin moons that spread their soft light over the darkened walls. A few flakes of snow drifted lazily downwards. One settled on the very tip of Halcyon’s muzzle, and he snorted as it tickled his sensitive nose. Vermeil eyes blinked up at Kor, and the assassin directed his glance momentarily to Dream, trying to read her expression. Suddenly she looked up, “What is the Dark Scythe? That’s what they called you back there wasn’t it?”  
Taken off-guard by the unexpected question, Kor’Dyran hesitated in his answer. “The Dark Scythe is the order to which I owe allegiance.” He replied slowly. “When my mission to find the first heir failed, I was sent by my mistress to find and guard the second heir – you.”  
“Did you really try to kill Lithandre?”  
Slightly amused by the indifference in her tone, Kor gave a small shake of his head. “No. My orders were to take her to safety by any means necessary. Despite my resentment to her kind, I would never have disobeyed orders and brought harm to her.”  
He saw she intended to ask further, and decided to cut if off at that point. “I suspect’ he said, taking a step away from the wall and towards the stairs ‘that Ethryder and Kyzeinac will want everyone well-rested come dawnsun. You should go and try to get some rest.” He suggested over his shoulder as his tall figure melted away into the darkness, Halcyon padding silently at his side.  
Dream sighed and pushed herself away from the wall. ‘Try to get some rest’ was very helpful, but so far her trying hadn’t gotten her any closer to actual rest. She descended the stairs absently, her mind too burdened with Davryan’s captivity, Reorren’s departure and now this heirship matter to settle down.


	33. Chapter 33

“Archon’s Demise is nigh the most heavily guarded fortress in Aradomoria. We cannot hope to take the place by storm, not with our numbers. Our best chance of getting Davryan out of there alive is by stealth.”  
“But then the question would be who will go and who will stay.” Talrosas objected as Vjelka finished speaking.  
Ethryder nodded from his place at the head of the table. It was still an hour before dawnsun, and yet all present members of the Oath were roused and deep in debate over the rescue of their captain. All knew the horrors associated with the terrible dungeon where his captors had taken him, even Dream had heard of them, but even the darkest and most sickening stories did nothing to quench the fire in their hearts. Every single one, from Talrosas and Jarlai to Ethryder and Kyzeinac, were ready and willing to place their life in the greatest peril for the sake of Davryan. “Naturally, some of us will need to remain behind to ensure the continued safety of this haven. And keep unity among the other bands of the Oath.” He added in after-thought.  
“So, how will it be decided?” Telrona inquired, her large and luminous eyes clearly distressed by the strain of the past few days.  
“Well, I’m going.” Ethryder replied with a short, lop-sided smile.   
Kyzeinac shook his head, “Ethryder, Davryan gave you charge of this town when he left. I think you should be one of the ones who stays behind.” He pointed out.  
Disappointed, the Blaideish knight frowned in protest. “In that case, your injuries – ”  
“ – won’t slow me down on the road, and by the time we get there I’ll be just fine.” The Tethdorian finished for him in stern tones of finality. Seeing Jarlai about to put in her word, he shook his head. “No, this is final. I am going, or you’ll all have to come up with some way to hinder me.”   
“That won’t be necessary, I’m sure.” Kor replied, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “But more importantly, do we actually have someone who knows the way there, and won’t get lost at the first corner in the road?”  
Uneasy silence met his words, and the Oath all looked at each other in hopes the other person would break the news first. “Reorren was the only one.” Talrosas said in muted tones.  
“Well where is he?” Ethryder asked, glancing about. The others stared about, noticing his absence for the first time.  
Kor quickly bent his eye towards Dream; she was staring uncomfortably at her folded hands, eyes half-closed behind her mask. “He’s…” she started, but then couldn’t bring herself to saying more. She swallowed and took a deep breath. “He left last night.”  
Ethryder stared at her blankly. “Left? Left for where?”  
“I don’t know. He just said he was leaving…that he couldn’t stand having to put up with two highborns instead of one.” Dream’s voice was racked with more than just pained confusion as she spoke.  
Kor’Dyran silenced any following questions with a single look, than turned to face the others. “Why Reorren chose to leave is a matter better discussed at another time. With every minute we sit here, the Aradomorians come this much closer to ripping everything Davryan knows from his mind. Every haven like this, every Oath band like this, is in mortal danger.”  
Nods followed in the wake of his words, then Narr-Dok slowly cleared his throat. “I was taken to that place once.” He began.  
“Tell uz ov one zlave who hazn’t.” Ethran muttered under his breath just loud enough for the others to hear.  
The Tor-Xiith blinked his green eyes. “But I also escaped that place. It will take deliberation, but I believe I can guide a group back to those accursed halls.”  
Kyzeinac nodded approval. “That’s good enough for me. Now, I need five others besides myself and Narr; the others will remain with Ethryder.”  
“I’m coming.” Dream replied readily.  
“And so am I.” Kor added almost before she finished speaking.  
“I’ll ztay vid Ethryder.” Ethran decided stoutly, though his Vakaric eyes showed how much he wished to be in the rescue group.  
“Thanks, Ethran.” Ethryder gave him a weak smile.  
Talrosas sighed inaudibly and studied the surface of the table minutely. “I’ll stay too.”  
“I will go with Kyzeinac.” Talrukas offered bravely, his sightless eyes flicking across the table in the general direction of the Tethdorian.  
Talrosas jerked up in alarm, eyes wide with a secret fear. He threw a desperate look at his brother, “Rukas, you can’t – ” he began to remonstrate.  
His younger brother looked towards him with a pleading expression. “Tal, please?” he asked quietly. “You need to stop blaming yourself for what happened; it wasn’t your fault.” He reminded him in undertones. “You can’t be there to watch out for me very time.”  
The older Rukaath’r shook his head regretfully at first, then gave a slight nod. “If you think it’s a good idea.” He relented reluctantly.  
“I’ll go; to keep an eye on your brother.” Vjelka announced, deliberately dropping her voice so that only Talrosas heard the last part.  
Telrona and Kai’Ryna glanced at each other, both wanting the honour but hesitating in favour of the other. Finally Telrona gave the other girl a friendly nudge and grinned, “I’ll stay behind.” She declared, flashing her friend a mischievous smile. “Kai wants to show off her lock-picking skills.”  
Kai’Ryna blushed deeply and stared at Telrona with half-amused, half-shocked eyes, “Rona! That’s not true!” she objected.  
“Alright.” Kyzeinac pushed his chair back and stood up. “I have my group, and Ethryder has his. We leave in one hour.” He announced, his order sending those going with him scrambling for the door to prepare. The Tethdorian laid a hand on Ethryder’s shoulder in parting. “Hold on till we get back.”  
“In how many pieces?” the Blaideish returned dryly.  
Ethran grinned, “Juzt enough vor uz to put back togezher.”  
“We’ll bring Davryan back, even if it costs us our lives.” Kyzeinac promised, a fierce light in his yellow eyes.  
“That’s what I’m worried about.” Ethryder nodded. “It’s not fair to expect the same attitude from the others that you hold, Kye. You Tethdorians think everyone else needs to keep pace with you; don’t tire them out before you even get within viewing distance of the damned place.”  
Kyzeinac nodded firmly, “Understood, I’ll try not to.”  
Ethryder and Ethran were standing at the gates watching them ride away in the early morning light when hurried steps and belaboured wheezing made them turn. His face red with exertion, anger and injured dignity, Gallandrin panted up to them. “What’s going on here?” he snapped, gasping for breath. Lithandre, pale but looking just as angry, lingered at his elbow, her proud eyes demanding an answer to the seer’s question.  
“Good morning to you.” Ethryder evaded a direct answer.  
Ethran nodded, “I truzt you zlept vell, yez?”  
The seer waved his hand impatiently. “I have no time for your pleasantries! Where is Dream?” he shouted in cracked tones. “I know it was her who spoke last night; the power in her eyes overwhelmed me. I was not prepared to see her so strong. Where is she?” he repeated.  
Ethryder glanced over his shoulder just as the town gates swung shut with an ominous thud. “Safely on her way with the others to bring our leader back to us.” He replied with satisfaction.  
“What??” Lithandre gasped, or rather, shrieked.  
“Safely?!” Gallandrin choked in disbelief. “You sent the heir to Bladerelna to the worst dungeon in all SwordSoul!”  
“It was her choice, no one forced her.” Ethryder replied sternly.  
“She has no right to make such a choice!” the seer retorted angrily. “None of you seem to understand her importance! And where is that Dark Scythe assassin you shelter?”  
“Kor’Dyran,” Ethran corrected him with a deep frown, “haz accompanied dem.”  
“You let an assassin travel with my sister?!” Lithandre cried irritably. Turning to Gallandrin, she burst out passionately, “We have to stop them before he kills her!”  
“Indeed! There seem to be no end of fools around here.” He muttered. “Tell Tescar to saddle the horses at once – ”  
“No!” Ethryder cut him off sternly. “You are strangers here, we could almost say intruders even. You are no one to give orders in the dominions of the Oath, nor do you have any place to interfere in our affairs. If you want Dream, you will wait until she returns, or you will leave us and go your own way.”  
The seer and the princess stared at him in wordless anger, then they spun around and stalked back to the barracks. “I vizth dey had levt instead.” Ethran groaned once they were out of hearing distance. “At least doze two…de oderz are at least better mannered.”  
“I know.” Ethryder nodded. He stared back at the gates, wishing more than ever to be with Kyzeinac’s group. “Maker grant they all return safely.”


	34. Chapter 34

Wind slapped the low mantle of Dream’s mask against the silver surface, and for perhaps the thousandth time, she lifted one stiff hand from the reins and smoothed the mantle back in place over her throat and shoulders. The flying snow did not matters any easier; she could just make out Vjelka’s broad figure ahead of her, huddled in the saddle of her wide-flanked horse. After three days travelling in the storm, it still wasn’t showing any signs of letting up. Kyzeinac had ordered them to tie ropes from one saddle to the other, to avoid the risk of getting lost or separated from the main group. The ground was getting rocky under the thin layer of snow, and the blurred shapes of trees and mountains, long etched against the horizon, seemed no closer than they had been two days ago. Ice lined the reins and harnesses of their horses, their armour and cloaks, and the hilts of their swords were sleek with it. Dream had grown tired of watching her frozen breath float lazily ahead of her before fading away, and the cold made her feel stiff and hard like a pillar.  
Up ahead, Kyzeinac and Narr-Dok had reined in their horses, and the Tor-Xiith dismounted, somewhat awkwardly, to examine the ground and surrounding foliage. “How can he find the way in this storm?” Kai’Ryna’s voice shivered as she halted her horse beside Dream and rubbed her hands briskly along her arms in hopes of getting some warmth back into them.  
“He can smell what is familiar.” Talrukas replied by means of rough explanaition, trusting in the instincts of his mount that it would pause with the others. One hand left the reins to brush ice and snow from his face. “He told me once that his kind have unique senses of sight and smell, and very good memories.”  
Hooves crunched in the snow as Kor guided his black horse back to them, the ghostly blue shape of Halcyon never far behind. “Kyzeinac says we’ve gone far enough for the day; we’ll make camp here for the night in the shelter of those spruces.” He pointed away to the left where several old and spreading trees formed meagre protection from the biting wind and cold.  
Vjelka had already dismounted and untacked her horse by the time the others made their way to the designated site, and was rummaging through her saddlebags as Dream slipped limply from the saddle and flexed her stiff, aching fingers. She turned to help Talrukas dismount, listening in on Kyzeinac and Narr-Dok as they tramped into camp, deep in discussion.  
“…the storm, but we cannot afford to wait till it passes.” The Tethdorian finished in grim tones, turning to unsaddle his weary horse.  
The Tor-Xiith nodded knowingly, running one clawed hand down his mount’s neck fondly. “Yes, that would not be wise. I am sure of our road from this point, Archon’s Demise isn’t more than seven days hard riding away.”  
“We won’t be doing any hard riding,” Kor reminded him, ‘in this weather.”  
“True.” Narr-Dok nodded slightly. “Maybe ten days then.”  
Vjelka and Kai’Ryna passed out bread, sausage and hard cheese, and the topic was dropped for the time being as they all found seats in the damp snow and ate ravenously. Dream washed it down with water from her flask, and then settled into her fur-lined cloak to catch some sleep before the morning. With her back against the rough trunk of a spruce, and her arms tightly hugging her torso, she closed her eyes and tried to shut out the howl of the wind and the muted voices of her older companions.  
Morning light brought a lull in the storm, and a break in the heavy clouds showing the weak winter sun brought hope that the rest of the journey would be continued without the ravaging hunger of the wind and the biting chill of the ice. Onwards they rode, following a narrow trail through the snow-burdened trees from one ridge to the next, with only Narr-Dok’s keen senses as their guide. It was nine weary days later that they came to a short pause on the rise of one ridge, and stared down into the valley below. Ice sheeted the river, and snow covered the open plains that ran to meet the roots of a solitary peak in the distance.   
Iron towers like horns reared from the jagged crags, and black rags of what were once brilliant pennants fluttered limply in the stinging breeze. Dark awnings of high, barred windows stared out across the plains, frowning with disapproval at the silent group of riders motionless on the ridge. From the north, a road lined with stained rocks cut its way through the plain right up to the foot of the mountain, where it followed a narrow, winding path up the rough ledges to iron gates of the fortress, which from their current position was hidden from sight. Despite the distance still between them, Dream thought she heard foul cries and desperate screams echoed faintly in the wind, and the sight of the infamous fortress spread fingers of fear into her heart.  
“It hasn’t changed a bit from when I last looked upon those terrible walls.” Narr-Dok spoke in strangely hollow tones, breaking the eerie silence.  
Kyzeinac shook his head, “No, it hasn’t.” he agreed stonily.  
Kai’Ryna shuddered, and Dream saw terror of old memories twist across her features and cloud the light in her eyes. Talrukas leaned forward slightly in the saddle; he could not see what they saw, but he could feel it in the air and his horse shifted nervously. Kor sat astride his stallion, one hand leaning comfortably against his side as he contemplated the cruel peak before them. He had never been in there, but he had heard of the dark, gruesome tortures used in those distant halls, the grim instruments used to break the wills of men and women, reducing them to weak, unquestioning pawns of their masters’ amusements. Vjelka shook her head as if to scatter unpleasant thoughts, and glanced at Kyzeinac.   
“You’re not planning to ride up to the front gates, are you?”  
Narr-Dok shook his head. “Oh no, that would not be…discreet.”  
Kai’Ryna brought her eyes from the fortress to him with a measure of surprise. “How are we going to get in then?” she asked simply.  
Kyzeinac narrowed his eyes, fixing his steely glare at the mountain. “We climb.”

Dream gritted her teeth until her jaws hurt, her fingers burying themselves in the rock to find a suitable hold to move up on. The wind did not make things easier either. It came howling and screaming from the west, unseen and icy fingers clawing at the figures spread out against the cliff-side, dislodging small stones from above and buffeting them with all its force in attempts to knock them off. Dream tried not to think of the plummeting drop below that would in the very least, break bones should one of them fall. And the thought of the rope secured around her waist did nothing to ease her concern; what if Vjelka, the heaviest of them and second from the bottom, lost her footing? Her dark eyes searched the higher crags for her companions, separating their dark-clad forms from the coal-grey hue of the surrounding cliffs.  
Kor was the furthest ahead, scaling the rocks with remarkable agility and speed, but not so much as to force the ones below him to hurry needlessly. Kyzeinac was behind him, pushing upwards with typical Tethdorian stubbornness, Talrukas and Kai’Ryna close on his heels. Below Dream, Vjelka and Narr-Dok scrambled to gain the heights with a lot of puffing and pausing to check their holds before leaning their entire weight into them. Halcyon had remained at the foot of the mountain with their concealed horses, but Kor had said the giant wolf would find a way to meet up with them inside the fortress. Dream gripped a narrow ledge in the stone with her right hand, reaching up with her left towards what looked to be a solid hold.   
Suddenly, there was the sound of breaking rock, a short scream, and a shower of small rocks plunged down onto Dream. Taken by surprise, she misjudged the distance to her next hold, and her hand scraped against a weak spot and slipped. Her right hand closed like a steel vice on the ledge as she felt her feet losing their grip, and more rubble dislodged as the small rim where her legs had been resting gave way. Vjelka gave a sharp cry of warning from below, and Dream managed to glance upwards though her own position was rather precarious.  
Kai’Ryna had slipped, and was hanging on by her left hand to the cliff-face, pale and trembling. Kor and Kyzeinac had both paused and were analysing the situation from their heights, while Talrukas had frozen in place at the first sounds of the accident. “What’s going on up there?” Vjelka called up.  
“It appears to be raining rocks.” Dream heard Narr-Dok observe in rather obvious sounding tones.  
“Kai’Ryna slipped.” Talrukas shouted to be heard over the wind.  
Vjelka nodded, “And so did Dream.” She replied, resuming her climbing. “Just keep holding on,” she addressed Dream, “I’ll be there in a minute and help you back up.”  
“Don’t take too long.” Kor’s warning floated faintly towards them. “Kai’Ryna may be light but Talrukas can’t take her weight for much longer.” No sooner had he spoken, when a splintering crack rand out from the cliff. Dream barely had time to look up before swinging her free hand up to shield herself from the debris that rained down on her. Kai’Ryna’s last hold had given way, and the only thing that saved her from plummeting to a gruesome, messy end below was the rope around her waist.  
Kor had started climbing again, and the length of rope between him and Kyzeinac was almost taunt as he reached the safety of the final ledge. Talrukas, white-faced from the exertion of holding on under the strain of Kai’Ryna’s weight, was still clinging with all his might to the rocks. Dream felt Vjelka’s strong hand push her up from below, and she groped for a crevice to heave herself back into position. In another minute, Narr-Dok was on her right side, and she gave a sigh of relief, which was cut in half by Kai’Ryna’s frightened voice above them.  
“The rope!”  
“It’s giving way!” Talrukas warned desperately.  
A sharp snap, drowned out by the girl’s despairing scream, made Dream’s heart cliff-dive to the bottom of the mountain. She suddenly felt herself falling backwards, and threw her weight against the cliff-face, clawing for a left hold. Narr-Dok gasped close to her ear, and she saw a flurry of movement out of the corner of her eye. The rope around her waist went tight, almost cutting off her breath. Kai’Ryna’s scream was suddenly silenced, and she dared to open her eyes, expecting to see the worst.  
A utterly different sight, though no less dangerous, met her astonished eyes. Vjelka had let go of her own holds in the rock to reach out and grab Kai’Ryna by the arm, her hand slipping down to her wrist before she could manage to tighten her grip. In so doing, her right hand had slipped from the rocks, and both would have fallen to their deaths if Narr-Dok hadn’t suddenly spun around, latched his tail around a stout jutting ledge to free his right hand and caught Vjelka by her upper arm.  
“Are you all alright?” Kyzeinac called from above.  
“A rope!” Vjelka’s tense voice grated from between tight lips. “Throw us a rope!”  
Dream heard Talrukas convey the Amateuthian’s order, and the next minute she had to scramble for a better hold on her ledge as Narr-Dok’s strength began to waver. Something hissed through the air. Vjelka suddenly swung forward, leaning her weight even more against the frayed rope, and pushed Kai’Ryna forward so she could grasp the end of the lowered line. The girl could barely get a grip on the rope; her hands were shaking so much, but after several attempts – during which Dream felt the rope dig deeper into her waist – she managed to grab it, and Kor and Kyzeinac hauled her to safety.  
“Vjelka, take the rope!” Kor hollered as the wind came screaming past the rocks again, more bent on ending their climb than ever before. Once the stout Amateuthian had taken her weight from the frayed rope, Dream found breathing an easier matter. But her fingers had frozen onto the ledge, and she couldn’t uncurl them from their death-grip around the stone. Narr-Dok, now using his tail to anchor himself, made his way above her and waited until the rope had been lowered again before gently prying her fingers lose and securing her hold around the line.  
Kor heaved her up, and she collapsed into his arms the minute her feet hit solid ground. Narr-Dok climbed up onto the broad ledge after her and bent to retrieve the second rope. “That was a near thing.” He observed coolly, coiling the rope up and stowing it into the open pack that lay a few paces from the cliff edge. “A pity we are not all master cliff-scalers like you, Kor.”  
The assassin smiled ruefully at him over Dream’s head. “Not all of us have a third hand either.” He indicated to the Tor-Xiith’s tail.  
“Thankfully we all made it up here in one piece.” Kyzeinac put in mildly. “And without too much commotion.” He added, glancing over his shoulder at the fortress complex towering above them.  
“I’m so sorry!” Kai’Ryna burst out, close to tears after her near-death experience. “If I hadn’t – ”  
“Now, now, no one is blaming you.” Kyzeinac assured her in what was his best attempt at a gentle tone. “It could have happened to anyone here…except maybe you, Kor.”  
Kor’Dyran shrugged it off. “Sometimes I slip too.”  
Vjelka got back to her feet with a grunt of satisfaction. “My thanks for the help, Narr-Dok. Falling hundreds of lance-lengths to be smashed on cold, rocky ground was not how I imagined myself to be departing this world.” She stared at the sheer walls of the fortress. “Tell me we aren’t climbing that too.”  
“We aren’t.” Kyzeinac replied, helping Talrukas to his feet. “Kor is.”  
Dream lifted her head from Kor’s shoulder to glance at the obsidian walls pocked with narrow window slits, and shuddered. “Climb that? How?” she stammered in disbelief.  
“There should be a small, out-of-the-way postern close to this spot inside.” Narr-Dok was going back through his memories of the place carefully. “It’s concealed from the outside, but visible from the inside. The guards use it to get rid of the bodies.”  
“Right.” Kor nodded to show he understood as he shed himself of his heavy, fur-lined overtunic and straightened a few straps of his close-fitting leather. He flexed his gauntleted fingers, stepped up to the wall and examined it closely for several minutes. Then he sprang upwards, moving swiftly and surely up the wall as if he was simply running on his hands and feet. As the others watched in awe of his skill, he paused at the top to look around, then dropped beyond out of their sight.


	35. Chapter 35

The creaking of old, rusty hinges brought their attention back to the ground, and they saw that a small, narrow portion of the wall had turned inwards. Gathering their gear, they hurried through, and Kor shut the postern behind them. They stood in a narrow passageway, the air stale and foul, the floor uneven and covered in reddish slime, like old blood. Somewhere below them, they could hear the clank of gears and faint screams and cries, while above was the tramp of a guard or the muttered curse of a warden if he stumbled.  
“Is that blood?” Dream asked quietly, staring at the red eddies at their feet.  
Narr-Dok shook his head, and Kor answered, “No, it’s rust; this place is mostly constructed from iron and left in the elements like this has caused the structure to decay in places.”  
“But these walls and floors are soaked in blood none the less.” Kyzeinac growled as he peered up and down the passage. “If the Tethdor knew of this place he would raise the Clans to see it wiped from the face of SwordSoul.”  
“How do we find Davryan in this place?” Talrukas asked practically.  
The Tor-Xiith pointed down the passage, “Important prisoners are kept in the towers where conditions are supposed to be slightly...better. I think that is where we will find him.”  
“If these thukanda kith’arta have harmed so much as a hair on his head,” Kyzeinac ran his fingers along the hilt of his sword grimly, “I’ll make them wish they’d never seen the light of the sun.” A fell flame glimmered in his eyes, and the expression on his lean, high-boned face hardened like tempered steel. He took the lead down the passage, and the others fell in step behind him. Their course led them up a short flight of stairs, through a string of empty, dim halls and to a rust-flaked iron door. Guards stood here, blocking their passage further, and one carried a short, curled horn at his belt, no doubt to sound the alarm should any prisoners escape.  
“I’ll take them.” Kor offered, stepping to the fore. He went down on one knee and unsheathed one of his sakruux. The crescent-shaped blade gleamed dully in the dim, close light as he balanced it on the palm of his hand, taking time to align his aim. In a quick twist of his arm, no more than a blur of movement to his companions, he threw his weapon forwards. The spinning blade caught the first guard around the throat and he slumped against the wall without a sound. His fellow guard stirred in surprise, but before he could assess the situation, the whirling blade had sliced into his neck and returned to Kor’s waiting hand.  
“Very impressive.” Kyzeinac commented as they stepped over the prostrate bodies and heaved open the heavy doors. They paused; however, at the scene that unfolded slowly before their eyes. A long, wide hall stretched out before them, with roaring fires down the centre over which hung deep cauldrons of sticky boiling liquid. Wardens stood over these, keeping careful watch that the contents remained at a searing temperature. Guards milled about or stood in alcoves by the wall, and other prison attendants scurried about. Chains hung from anchors in the roof, no doubt used to suspend unfortunate victims over the fires to whatever tortures their captors had in waiting for them. And Dream was sure that the red stains across the floor and walls was from more than just rust.  
The sound of the doors made a few guards and wardens glance up lazily, and most went back to their work, only to jerk their heads up for a second closer look. Before one cry of alarm could break from their surprised features, Kyzeinac had drawn his sword and lunged forward to where they were the thickest. There was no stopping the Tethdorian, and though the sight of so many guards had taken them by surprise, his companions were quick to charge into the hall after him.  
A horn rang out in the hall, and was answered from somewhere beyond the far end of the chamber. Before the desperate alarm could be repeated, Vjelka’s greatsword came down on the guard’s head, silencing the call and the caller in one deadly blow. Keeping close together, the Oath steadily cut a path midway through the hall; the guards falling back in dismay at their resolute approach. Blood swam on the uneven stones of the floor, and hewn bodies lay in the wake of the warriors’ blades as they advanced further.  
Suddenly a familiar, and hated, voice broke above the din of the fighting, and Dream immediately glanced up, seeking the speaker. “Kill the intruders! My master has given orders not to be disturbed! Don’t let them enter the tower!”  
“G’hornad!” Talrukas muttered under his breath as he parried a blow with one blade and ran his opponent through with the other. His sightless eyes darted towards the door at the far end of the hall, and Dream saw the malicious gaze of the former Oath as he slipped out and a stream of guards poured into the chamber, fresh and ready. She threw a glance at her companions; they were still engaged with the other wardens and guards and had not seen the reinforcements spilling like a broken dam into the hall. But her warning cry was drowned out by the well-known and chilling howl of Halcyon as he came bounding from the passage, vermeil eyes pits of living fire and his long fur stiff along his powerful frame. He fixed his glare on the Aradomorians and launched himself at them with a savage growl, fangs bared and claws stretched out.  
“Kye!” Kor shouted as the two found themselves back-to-back in the very centre of the conflict. “Take Narr and go find Davryan! Now!”  
The Tethdorian gave him a sharp look, then nodded. He wove his way through the swinging blades and twisting forms of friends and foes, adding a blow of his own here and there as he went. Grabbing Narr by the shoulder, he started towards the further door, “The others will hold them off, we need to find Davryan before the entire garrison comes down on us.” He explained as the Tor-Xiith began to claw his way back to the fight.  
“I see.” Narr-Dok nodded, understanding at once. He hurried after the Tethdorian, and Dream placed herself infront of the handful of guards who tried to follow. Her surcoat and armour were splashed liberally with blood, and the silver of her mask was now dyed a deep crimson. But the dark fires of her eyes gave way to a blinding blue-white light as she reached through the past and grasped at the power passed down to her from her ancestors. Her blade flickered with that same light, and the guards felt terror pierce their minds as she suddenly lunged forward into their midst. Her sword swept clean through several in one stroke, as if they were mere shocks of wheat before the scythe of a zealous reaper.   
The last warden fell with Talrukas’ blade through his torso and Halcyon’s fangs at his throat, and the defenders stepped back to catch their breath and restore some of their strength. Kor glanced over the corpse-littered floor, his eyes traveling over his companions to assure himself they were still capable of more fighting. Vjelka seemed unharmed, and not ruffled in the slightest by the unexpected fight. Kai’Ryna nursed a graze on her left arm, and Talrukas was bleeding from his right knee. Halcyon’s fur was drenched in blood, and Kor frowned as the wolf came to stand beside him. “Please tell me that isn’t all yours.” He growled in undertones, flicking blood from his twin sakruux.  
“Some of it is.” The wolf answered, unconcerned.  
“That was G’hornad.” Dream looked at Kor with a strange expression on her face. “What is he doing here? Was he behind Davryan’s ambush?”  
The assassin pursed his lips in thought. “That’s possible. But right now we need to join up with Kyzeinac; hopefully he’s found Davryan and we can get out of here.”  
They passed on through the door. Dead guards at the foot of a long, steep stair-well evidence that Kyzeinac and Narr had encountered small resistance on their way up. “Vjelka, Talrukas, keep watch here.” Kor ordered as he set one foot on the first step, and felt it creak under his weight. Dream and Kai’Ryna followed him up cautiously, weapons held ready in their hands. Halcyon gave a nervous whine as he sniffed at the floor, reluctant to ascend such perilous heights and also loathe to leave his charge. With a snort as if clearing dust from his nose, he gingerly padded after them.  
Defiant and loud voices reached them as they climbed the stairs, and they emerged onto a broad landing encircled by an iron railing that looked ready to fall in pieces at the slightest touch. Kyzeinac and Narr-Dok were on the farthest side; the Tethdorian brandishing his sword as if he would rain down the winters of his homeland upon any who stood in his way had he the power to do so, and the Tor-Xiith bearing the limp, wasted form of Davryan in his arms. Dream’s eyes fell on the tall figure who stood with his back to her, facing the defiant, stubborn Tethdorian. G’hornad slouched beside him, and Dream could just feel the smirk on his face. A small knot of guards clustered around the two, and by the faint, hurried sounds and shouts across the fortress, it was clear many more were on the way.  
“Kai’Ryna,” Kor whispered as they silently approached, unnoticed by the Aradomorians. “go back and help defend the tower with Vjelka.”  
The Rukaath’r nodded and disappeared down the stairs again just as Halcyon came bounding up the last few. No sooner did he catch sight of the traitorous Dalic, then he launched himself at him with a fierce snarl of rage. G’hornad spun about, the arrogant smirk on his face freezing into a piercing scream of terror. The guards shrank away from the fury of the giant wolf, and the tall figure, presumably the leader or commander of the fortress, turned at the first sound of the wolf’s cry. He raised his hand even as Kyzeinac yelled a warning – ‘It’s a trap, Kor! Call him back!’  
Dream felt frozen to the spot in horror as she heard the unmistakable snap of bowstrings from above; archers lined balconies she had seen at first, and at the man’s signal they had released a deadly barrage onto the landing below. Halcyon’s ensuing whines of pain as arrows buried themselves into his thick pelt, were barely heard G’hornad’s hysterical laughter. Throwing caution to the winds, Kor charged into the guards with reckless anger, while Kyzeinac lunged at them from the rear, shouting to Narr to get Davryan to safety. Dream darted forward as G’hornad tried to stop the Tor-Xiith, and her blade ripped through his back and out his chest. She saw his pain-contorted features stare at her with unknown fear and dread, then he doubled over as blood gushed from his gaping jaw. Dream wrenched her blade free and pushed Narr-Dok towards the stair with one hand while with the other she blocked the swing of an enraged prison guard.


	36. Chapter 36

Racing through a side passage that led from the landing, Kyzeinac and his two companions, with Halcyon limping along as best as he could, ran into the rest of their group holding in the main hall. All around them, they could hear the tramp of heavy boots, the ring of steel, the clank of armour and the cries of guards as they converged on their position. “The main gates,” Kyzeinac pushed them all forwards, “Get to the main gates!”  
Vjelka led the way, smashing two guards out of her path with a single swing of her arm. As they emerged into the courtyard, arrows began to fall in their midst as archers spotted them from the outer walls. Kyzeinac and Dream turned to cover their flank as they neared the gates, and Kor threw his weight against the heavy lever desperately. Narr-Dok, still carrying Davryan’s still form, sheltered behind the alcove of the gate with Talrukas and Kai’Ryna. Hefting her greatsword to her back, Vjelka moved to help Kor, taking an arrow in the back as she did so. With her strength and Kor’s, the lever finally began to swing backwards, and the gates heaved and groaned as they slowly inched inwards. There was no time to wait for them to open fully; as soon as the break was large enough, the Oath began to file through.  
Their horses, guided there by Halcyon as he prowled about looking for a way in, were hidden behind a rocky outcrop in the road, and the companions lost no time in mounting up. Kyzeinac took Davryan infront of him in the saddle, and they urged their tense mounts down the precarious cliff-side path. The horses tripped and stumbled on the loose pebbles, and Dream felt sure she’d be more safe on her own two feet then jolting up and down in the saddle like they were. Compared to the time it took them to climb the peak, they seemed to reach the flat plains in a much shorter span of time. Free of the rocky, insecure mountain path, their horses broke into a full gallop, heading for the nearest tree-covered ridge in the distance.  
Muted thunder of hooves behind them made Dream glance over her shoulder, and she saw a large group of fortress guards in hot pursuit. Her companions noticed them almost at the same time, and urged their mounts onwards at a greater pace than before. Snow rose in clouds under the tread of the heavy hooves, and the harnesses jingled in the clear winter air. A dark blur to the left, cutting swiftly across to head them off, caught Kor’s attention first, and he flung out an arm in the direction of the new threat.  
Halcyon, who despite his injuries still managed to keep pace with the horses, growled and let loose a challenging howl. Thrown into fear and consternation, the enemies’ horses pulled back on their haunches, rearing and striking out with their hooves in terror. Bows creaked back, and a hail of arrows streaked across the snow-blurred space. The horses of the Oath were unarmoured; Kai’Ryna’s went down first with a feathered shaft in its hindleg, and Talrukas’ was to follow with a shuddering scream as two arrows buried their steel heads into its neck. Without waiting to see if the others were pulling up, Vjelka swung her horse about sharply and raced back to their fallen members.  
Dream drew rein beside Narr-Dok, who had braked his horse to a fast stop, and Kor came cantering back to them with Kyzeinac at his heels. “The Mor’Heda are infront of us.” Kor explained, holding his spirited stallion in check. “We need to deal with these Aradomorians first.” Flinging his last words over his shoulder, he spurred his destrier onwards. Dream followed, but Kyzeinac paused long enough to transfer Davryan to the Tor-Xiith’s saddle before dashing away after the others. “Get him out if here!”  
They crashed full into the advancing fortress guards. Steel rang against steel, and one brawny horse went down with a slashed throat, crushing his rider. “Get them up!” Kyzeinac ordered as he carved a bloody swaithe through the riders. Kai’Ryna had fallen clear of her horse, but lay dazed and winded. Talrukas; however, had not been able to see, and he lay with one leg pinned underneath his horse’s body. Both Vjelka and Kor swung from the saddle to help their fallen Oath, while Kyzeinac and Dream kept the guards at bay.  
They only had Halcyon’s desperate howl and a sudden shaking of the ground as warning, before the first of the Mor’Heda came bearing down on their flanks. Dream saw the fear in the eyes of the fortress guards as they tried to turn their frenzied mounts and flee. The next minute, a heavy club smashed into her side, knocking her from the saddle and leaving her half senseless. With eyes blurred with a heavy red myst, she could only watch helplessly as to the fate of her companions.  
Vjelka, having succeeded in hauling the horse’s body from off Talrukas, and was helping him up. A Mor’Heda rammed a spear through her back, and the force behind the blow was so great, the spear-head came out through her chest and stabbed into Talrukas. The Amateuthian shoved the boy towards her horse with the last of her strength as an anguished cry tore from her throat and she stumbled down into the snow, one hand clutching at the spear haft. Kai’Ryna didn’t even have time to feel the pain when another Mor’Heda crushed out her life in his choking hands and threw her limp corpse away with a satisfied grunt.  
Halcyon leapt at the first Mor’Heda to swing at Kor, and his fangs dug deep into the tough hide, spilling dark blood over the snow. Kyzeinac was knocked from the saddle, but his boot caught in the stirrup and his maddened horse bolted across the plain. Dropping from the saddle and slapping his stallion away, Kor was left to face the Mor’Heda alone. He lunged at the first that stepped towards Dream, his sakruux cutting deep furrows across the dark hide and rusted mail. But it was hard for him to move amid so many hulking, swinging beasts despite his agility, and a heavy hand grabbed him around the chest, slamming him into the ground several times till he was so numb with pain his blades slipped effortlessly from his grip. The Mor’Heda tossed him aside, and easily swiped Halcyon away as the wolf launched himself at the beast, bent on revenge. The plain was theirs now, and all about them lay the dead or bleeding forms of the Oath. They took Dream captive, and began their long march back to their mistress, the Witch of the Ashen Wastes.


End file.
